The light was rapidly fading among the trees and he improved what was left of it. Prowling around the spot in a circle, with his nose close to the ground, he discovered that the three youths had started along the bank of the brook toward its head.
Thereupon the Winnebago formed the correct conclusion; they had moved from the main trail (doubtless on the suggestion of the young Shawanoe), in search of some place to encamp where there would be less danger of detection.
By the time the Wolf had satisfied himself on this point, it had become too dark among the trees for his eyes to detect the trail, which at mid-day would have been as distinct as a beaten path. He therefore adopted the plan of which I have made mention elsewhere: he followed a general rule.
The conclusion being that the parties for whom he was searching had located themselves somewhere along the creek, it was useless to try and follow the footprints, though there were points here and there where the sense of touch might have helped him. He decided to creep stealthily up stream until he found the camp, and then bide his time.
It is hard to form an idea of the extreme care with which this was done. Had the Winnebago not known of the presence of Deerfoot, he would not have taken half the time consumed, but he had seen enough of that wonderful youth to know that it would require more than a child to outwit him.
At a point about half way between the trail and the camp among the rocks, the Wolf thought his hands touched some imprints in the earth which showed that the three had turned to the right and gone deeper into the woods. It required reconnoitering before he discovered his mistake.
With the same amazing patience he renewed his stealthy progress up the stream, until at last he emerged into the moonlight and found that at last he had reached the spot for which he had hunted so long.
It so happened that as he straightened up, he looked directly into the mouth of the cave and saw the dull glow of the camp-fire, like the open eye of some monster. Not only that, but he observed the three forms stretched out by it. The heart of the savage throbbed with pleasure, for he felt that success had come at last.
With the same absolute noiselessness he began creeping into the mouth of the cavern. One of the embers fell apart with a soft rustle, which caused him to stop and hold his breath lest the sleepers should awake. But they did not stir, and in a minute he resumed his advance.
The two white lads had flung the blankets from their faces, so that he saw Fred Linden plainly, and enough of the other to identify him as the one who had smitten him. Nearer to the Winnebago than they was the third form, which he knew equally well.
“It is the Shawanoe,” was his thought; “I will bury my knife in his heart and then slay the others.”
A minute later he reached forward his upraised right hand and suddenly brought it down with a force that pinned the blanket to the earth. But to his unspeakable disgust Deerfoot was not within it.
CHAPTER XIX
Shawanoe and Winnebago
While Fred Linden and Terry Clark lay in that part of the cavern where the floor was of rock, the blanket of Deerfoot was spread on the earth. Consequently when the Winnebago brought down his knife with such vicious spitefulness, it went through the folds of the blanket and was buried to the hilt in the ground underneath.
You know that, despite the marvelous quiet with which the Winnebago approached the cavern, he was heard by Deerfoot, who, pausing only long enough to make sure that an enemy was approaching, whisked outside. There he stood in the impenetrable shadow under the trees, and saw the Winnebago at the moment he emerged into the faint moonlight and stood upright.
The first look confirmed his suspicion that it was the Winnebago, who had come back to avenge himself for the affair of the preceding day. Deerfoot smiled to himself, for there was a tinge of absurdity about the whole business that was sure to become still more so.
The Shawanoe paused a few seconds before darting out of the cavern, until he could arrange his blanket, so that it would appear as if it infolded his sleeping form, and then he quietly awaited events.
It must be admitted that it looked like leaving Fred and Terry in great peril to permit such a savage enemy to creep so close to them while they were sound asleep; but Deerfoot knew that the first thing that the Wolf would do would be to attempt his life, precisely as he did attempt it. Before he could do any thing more, the Shawanoe concluded to impress his presence upon the visitor.
At the moment, therefore, that the Winnebago stopped his advance and slowly raised his knife, as he supposed over the breast of Deerfoot, that gentleman, kneeling on one knee, brought his rifle to bear upon the Winnebago, the dull light from the fire shining along the barrel, whose muzzle was within a yard of the unsuspicious Wolf.
The blanket through which the keen-pointed knife had been driven was no more firmly transfixed for the moment than was the Wolf when a slight hissing noise caused him to turn his head, and he saw the dreaded Shawanoe in a kneeling position with his gun leveled at him, the finger on the trigger, and the bright eye glancing along the barrel.
The Winnebago was literally unable to move or speak, and Deerfoot, motionless himself, held him thus for several seconds. Then with the gun still pointed, he said in a low voice:
“Dog of a Winnebago! Deerfoot has spared the life of the Wolf, and he now seeks to strike him in the dark.”
This address loosened the tongue of the terrified warrior, who, seeing his captor raise his head from sighting along the barrel, though he kept the weapon leveled, obeyed the beckoning motion of Deerfoot, and crept noiselessly out of the cavern. On the alert for any chance, he was ready to seize it, but the first object on which his eye rested in the dim moonlight was the figure of the young Shawanoe holding his gun in such a position, that, should it be necessary, he could fire like a flash.
Deerfoot would not have hesitated to lay his gun aside, and, drawing his knife, give the Winnebago the same chance with himself; but the Wolf had left his weapon where he forced it through the blanket into the ground, so that he had none except his tomahawk, and he was not likely to attempt any thing with that.
Besides, while Deerfoot had not the least fear of his enemy, he did not wish to fight with him. He did not engage in his many desperate encounters through love of victory, but because it had seemed to him that it was his duty, and there was no other way out of the trouble.
It must be said, too, that at this hour the Shawanoe happened to be in a mood which rendered such encounters more than usually distasteful to him. After he had closed his Bible and lay on his face, looking into the embers and meditating, the same thought that had stirred him many a time before filled his mind again.
Why do men strive to kill each other?
It was a question which has puzzled many a wise man in the past and has not yet been answered. Thousands of affectionate husbands unlock the white arms of the loving little children from their necks, kiss the heartbroken wife good-by, and then rush out to try to murder one whom they have never seen, who has also just torn himself loose from his family. There is something in the thought that mystifies beyond all explanation.
The problem which directly interested Deerfoot was whether the day would not come when the red men of every tribe could meet the pale faces in friendship instead of hatred. Why should they always be at war? Could he do a little to bring about that day of universal peace? Was there not some work which the Great Spirit had laid out for him by which he could help to soften the feeling of the two peoples toward each other?
But Deerfoot had asked himself the same question many a time before, and the only answer was that the most he could do was to follow the light within him: that is, aid to remove a part of the antagonism between the two races.
Alas, too, that while he was considering the question, his ear caught the soft rustle that told him one of his own race was seeking his life. Deerfoot was sorrowed more than angered. He wished that the Winnebago had taken some other time to make his stealthy attack.
Joined to this emo
tion was that of another akin to sympathy for the Winnebago in his complete discomfiture. He had come back to regain his rifle, but not only had failed, but had lost his knife, and now was standing at the mercy of a Shawanoe young enough to be his son. The latter resolved that, though the Wolf had earned death, he would not harm him, unless forced to do so in self-defense.
For half a minute the warriors, with ten feet separating them, looked straight at each other in silence. Fred Linden and Terry Clark slept soundly, for as yet there had been no noise sufficient to awake a light sleeper.
“Why does the Wolf seek the life of Deerfoot?” asked the latter, willing to relieve the embarrassment of the other.
“The Wolf sought the gun that had been stolen from him.”
“But it was not hidden in the blanket, that he should drive his knife through it.”
“The Wolf believed it was,” was the curt response.
“Does the Wolf strike with his knife at his own gun?” asked the Shawanoe, without betraying any emotion.
“He would rather do so than that it should stay in the hands of an enemy.”
“It never would have been in the hands of an enemy had the Wolf acted as a brave warrior; but he sought the life of the young pale face who had never done him harm.”
“Has not his people stolen the hunting grounds of the red man?” demanded the Winnebago, who, seeing that some grace was to be allowed him, burst into the argument that multitudes of his people have used before and since. Before he could proceed further, Deerfoot asked: “Are these the hunting grounds of the Winnebagos?”
“They are the hunting grounds of his race, though they may not be of his totem; Deerfoot should join with his brother the Wolf in driving the white men into the sea.”
“There was a day when that might have been done,” replied Deerfoot, who felt that faint throb and thrill which sometimes came to him, as if to tell him that his Indian nature was not yet entirely dead within him; “once the pale faces were but a handful, and the red men hunted over all the ground that lies between the great waters. They could have swept the pale faces into the sea, but they would not be brothers with themselves; they fought each other. So the pale faces grew, and the day will never come when they need fear the red men.”
“The brave warrior does not ask what can be done, but does with all his might that which he knows the Great Spirit wishes him to do.”
“The Great Spirit does not tell him to kill his pale face brother; for they are all His children and He loves them. The Great Spirit has spoken to Deerfoot and told him that all His children should love one another.”
“Does Deerfoot do so?”
“He does; he never strikes but when the Great Spirit tells him to do so; if he was the Wolf and the Wolf was Deerfoot, he would have slain the Shawanoe long ago.”
The Winnebago would have denied this had he not seen that it was idle to do so. What would he not have given at that moment could he have exchanged places with the handsome and triumphant young warrior?
“The true Great Spirit loves all His children, whether they be pale or red or of the color of night; He smiles when they meet each other as friends, and He will reward in the spirit land those who do His will on the earth. Let the Wolf bury the words of Deerfoot in his heart, for they are the words of truth, and if they are heeded he will be happy—Go!”
The amazed Winnebago doubted for a moment that he had heard the command aright; but the wave of the hand which accompanied it, and the fact that it was in perfect consonance with the words he had just heard, satisfied him there was no mistake about it.
“The Wolf thanks his brother for what he has done.”
The heart of the Winnebago forced the words between his lips as he turned his face away and walked down the bank of the stream in the direction whence he came. He vanished the next instant in the darkness.
Deerfoot did not stir until every sound of the soft footsteps had died out. Then he lowered the hammer of his gun, bent his shoulders slightly forward, so as to walk freely, and entered the cavern where his friends were still sleeping.
CHAPTER XX
Another Night Visitor
Deerfoot the Shawanoe was convinced of one thing—the Wolf would trouble him no further that night. What he might do in the future must be left for the future to tell. Whether the few words that he had dropped should prove the good seed of which I have spoken, or whether they should be choked up by thorns, not even the Wolf himself could tell.
The young warrior showed his convictions by flinging some wood on the fire, so that its blaze filled the cavern, and preparing for sleep. He first sat down and pulled out the knife of the Wolf, whose blade took on an additional gleam from the cleansing it had received in being forced into the flinty earth. He examined it with no little curiosity, though it was similar to his own.
A glance, however, showed that it was an inch or two longer. It was straight and oval-shaped, the blade not quite two inches wide, with a handle that had been cut from a deer’s horn and fitted with no slight skill. Whether it was the product of aboriginal ingenuity or was the work of some cutler of the Caucasian race could only be guessed, the matter really not being worth the trouble of guessing. Its two edges and the point were very sharp. Deerfoot having laid aside his gun, grasped the blade in his left hand and circled it through the air like a swordsman at play. He was so pleased with it that he decided to keep it. He would not throw away the one that had served him so well, but would present it to Fred Linden, while he retained the one with which he was sure he could do better work.
It was singular that while the Shawanoe was turning the weapon over in his hand, and examining it with so much interest, that the occasion for its immediate use should come, but so it was.
He was on the point of shoving it in behind his belt and lying down to sleep, when a movement of the bushes outside was heard. It was so distinct indeed that he knew it was not caused by a person.
The rustling was accompanied by a scratching sound and low growl. Turning his head, he saw an immense wolf standing at the entrance of the cavern, his whole figure revealed in the firelight. With his jaws parted and his form erect, he was a formidable creature, before which almost any one would have recoiled. He would have advanced straight to an attack upon the young warrior but for the fire which partly interposed. Even as it was, he seemed making ready to leap at the throat of the youth, who was sitting on the blanket, looking coolly at him.
It would have been the easiest matter in the world for Deerfoot to catch up his gun and shoot him dead, but he chose to do otherwise. Drawing one of the embers forth by the end that was not burning, he held it before him in his right hand, and, grasping the knife in his left, ran lightly toward him, as though he meant to jam it into his eyes.
The bravest animal can not stand unmoved before such an attack, and the namesake of the human enemy whisked about and darted out of the cavern with the Shawanoe close behind him. The former bounded a half dozen steps, pausing on the very spot where the hostile warrior was first seen, and facing about, as if to observe whether his foe dare follow him any further. But Deerfoot had him now where he wished, and he flung the torch aside among the undergrowth, where it lay smoking for a few minutes before it went out.
The fierce animal must have been of the opinion that he too had his antagonist where he wanted him, for, without the least hesitation, he uttered a snarling growl and made two leaps straight at him. The first carried him a little more than half the intervening distance, and the second was meant to bear Deerfoot to the earth.
The young warrior, however, stepped lightly to one side, so that the wolf missed him altogether, and would have been forced to wheel about and make a second attack had the chance been given him, but at the instant it landed, the left hand, grasping the long, keen knife, shot forward with great force and lightning-like swiftness, and was buried to the hilt in the throat of the brute.
It was a blow as effective as a cannon ball could have been, for the knife clove
the seat of life in twain, and the beast rolled over on the earth dead, almost before it could emit a single yelp of agony.
Deerfoot stood a moment surveying the carcass before him, and then, with no more excitement than he would have shown in speaking to Fred or Terry, he said: “’Tis a good weapon, and will serve Deerfoot well.”
Then he walked to the tiny brook, carefully washed the gleaming blade, shoved it behind his belt, where it was held in place without the sheath that clasped the other, and walked back to the cavern. The boys had not been disturbed by the outcry of the wolf, and Deerfoot, throwing some more wood on the flames, lay down on the blanket, drew it partly about him, and in ten minutes was asleep, not opening his eyes again until the light of morning streamed into the cavern and only a few smoldering embers were left of the camp-fire.
He smiled when he looked upon the two youths, who were still soundly sleeping, all unconscious of the stirring events that had taken place during the darkness. There was no call for a renewal of the fire, and, after spending a few minutes in communion with the Great Spirit, he passed outside the cavern, drank from the clear water in the brook, and laved his face and hands.
Just as he finished, Fred Linden emerged, rubbing his eyes and yawning, while Terry Clark was close behind him.
“Good morning, Deerfoot!” called the former; “it was just like you to let us sleep all night while you kept watch: tonight you must let us take our turn.”
“Fred has exprissed me own sintimints,” added Terry; “we have had so much slumber that we can kaap awake for a month. Helloa!”
The gaze of the boys at that moment fell on the body of the wolf, stiffened in death.
“You have had visitors,” said Fred; “my gracious, but he’s a big fellow! Killed by a knife thrust too, that looks as if it had gone half way through his body; how was it, Deerfoot?”
The Shawanoe waited until they had finished bathing their hands and faces, and then he quietly told them the story, including the account of the warrior’s visit. As you may well suppose, the boys opened their eyes, and Terry, running inside, brought out the blanket, which had been folded in such a manner that the knife of the Winnebago passed through three thicknesses of the cloth.
The Edward S. Ellis Megapack Page 232
