The Edward S. Ellis Megapack

by Edward S. Ellis

  “Wahla had to keep his captives for a week or more until word could be sent to the other villages, that they might come and feast upon the deaths of the Cheyennes. During that time, Mul-tal-la cannot tell how, the young Cheyenne warrior and Mita, daughter of the chieftain, met and learned to love each other. No one knew their secret, and so, while preparations were going on for the cruel deaths, she managed to loose his bonds, and one night the two fled for the home of the Cheyennes, there to become husband and wife.

  “Wahla did not learn of the flight of his daughter and lover until the next morning, when he started in pursuit. He went alone, for his rage was so terrible that he was not willing anyone should share the sweetness of revenge with him. He traveled fast, and drew nigh enough to catch sight of the two on the second day following their flight. He did not carry his bow, but had his knife and tomahawk, while the youth possessed no weapon at all. Had a knife been his, he would not have used it against Wahla, because he was the father of the maiden whom he loved more than his life.

  “When the two found they could not flee faster than the wrathful chieftain, they paused and waited for him to come up. Then Mita threw herself at the feet of her father and prayed him to spare the life of the Cheyenne. The chief spurned her and ran after the young warrior. The youth did not flee, but stood with folded arms, calmly awaiting him.

  “‘Slay me,’ he said, ‘but when I die Mita will die with me!’

  “Heedless of the appeal, the furious chieftain plunged his knife into the breast of the youth, who sank to the earth and breathed out his life. Wahla turned to seize his daughter, but at that moment a wild shriek rent the air, and she died, clasping his knees and moaning that he had slain her as well as the Cheyenne.

  “When Wahla saw what he had done, he started to hurry to his village, but his mind had gone from him. You were told that he had been wounded by the Cheyenne in battle. The wound was in the thigh of the chief, and it now broke out afresh, as if in punishment for the crime he had committed. It made him limp sorely, but he would not stop, and ran faster than ever. Because of his halt gait, he ran in a circle.

  “Round and round he went all night, when he perished, but the Great Spirit kept him running throughout the days and weeks that followed until he became a shadow. His feet wore a circular path, which may be seen today, as Mul-tal-la has looked upon it many times and my brothers may do if they will journey a few days to the southward.

  “But Mul-tal-la now tells the strangest part of this story. In the years that have passed since Wahla slew the Cheyenne lover, and his daughter died at his feet, the storms would have wiped away all signs of the path long ago. But it remains as distinct as ever. This is because the spirit of Wahla tramps it round and round all through the nights when the moon does not shine, for no one can see him running over the ground.

  “When you look toward the slope of the mountain you can see the circle as plain as we see those sticks burning in the middle of the lodge, but when you reach the spot no sign of the path shows.”

  “How is that?” asked the wondering Victor.

  “It is the belief that the spirit of Mita, the daughter, is always hovering over the spot, and that her heart forever grieves for her father and lover. When she sees anyone drawing near the place, she hurries from her home, which is near at hand, though no one knows exactly where, and, bending over the ground, hurries along and flirts a piece of her garment over the whole length of the path and blots it out, so that grass grows where a few minutes before was only the hard earth, packed by the moccasins of her father.”

  “What brings the path into sight again?” asked George Shelton.

  “When night comes, Chief Wahla begins tramping around the circle once more. At sunrise the path is as it was before, and so remains unless some one starts forward to gain a closer look. The moment he does so the invisible spirit of Mita, daughter of Wahla, hurries out and destroys all the footprints, so that no one has ever been near enough to gain a close view of them, nor can he ever do so. Such is the legend of the Spirit Circle.”1

  CHAPTER XVI

  The Field of Honor

  Deerfoot did not interrupt the Blackfoot while he was relating the legend of the Spirit Circle. He listened attentively. He had heard many such myths among his own people, and once they impressed him, but he had come to look upon them as idle tales not worth a thought. Instead of commenting upon the rude beauty of the story that had been told to his friend many years before, he asked the practical question:

  “What has the Spirit Circle to do with Deerfoot and Taggarak?”

  “It is the law among the Blackfeet that when our war chief Taggarak wills to punish some great criminal he sends him to the Spirit Circle, where he must walk around it without food or drink till he drops down and dies.”

  “Has anyone ever done that?” asked the Shawanoe.

  “Yes; more than once. Not many moons ago a warrior killed his father, mother and child in a fit of rage. The only punishment that fitted such an awful crime was that of the Spirit Circle. Three warriors took the man there and started him round the path; they took turns in watching, and made sure that he had no food nor water, and was kept moving till he could move no longer. He fell down, and they stood near until he breathed his last; then they came back to Taggarak and told him what had been done.”

  “My brother has not yet shown what his words have to do with Deerfoot and Taggarak.”

  “Let my brother have patience and he shall know. Deerfoot remembers the rock from whose top he first caught sight of Mul-tal-la, whose brother was coming to this village, riding on Whirlwind?”

  As he spoke the Blackfoot pointed to the east. Deerfoot nodded. The meeting place was a half mile beyond the open space on which the athletic contests had been held that day.

  “It is the command of Taggarak that the Shawanoe shall meet him there tomorrow, when the sun climbs the mountain tops. He must bring only his hunting knife and come alone; the chief will do the same. When they face each other, Taggarak will give the Shawanoe the choice of dying by his hand or at the Spirit Circle.”

  “Did Taggarak say that to my brother?”

  “That is his command. He has heard that the Shawanoe is making squaws of his warriors; he therefore gives him his choice of deaths.”

  Victor Shelton sprang to his feet.

  “See here, Mul-tal-la,” he said, excitedly; “do you tell us that the chief Taggarak makes the condition that he and Deerfoot are each to use only his knife as a weapon?”

  The Blackfoot gravely nodded his head.

  “And that neither is to have a friend with him?”

  “So Taggarak wills.”

  “That isn’t the way people fight duels. George and I must be on hand when Deerfoot gets into a scrape like that.”

  “But it cannot be.”

  “My brothers will stay here till Deerfoot comes back to them,” quietly remarked the Shawanoe.

  “But how are we to know that Taggarak won’t play some trick on us? He may have half a dozen of his warriors hiding among the bushes or rocks, so as to help him kill Deerfoot.”

  For the first time in the interview Mul-tal-la smiled.

  “Taggarak never breaks his word. He might do as my brothers say if he thought there was need of it. He doesn’t believe the Shawanoe will be more than a child in his hands when the two stand in front of each other.”

  “He might have thought that yesterday, or at any time before the games today, but after he saw Deerfoot perform he must have some doubt.”

  “Deerfoot did not fight. Taggarak knows naught of his skill in doing that, even though he has been told he killed a grizzly bear in a fair struggle. He would feel ashamed if he asked for any help against the Shawanoe.”

  Deerfoot calmly rose to his feet. Those who looked up at him noted a peculiar flash of his dark eyes that was not often seen, and, when seen, told of the hidden fires he was holding in subjection. He raised his hand for silence.

  “Let Deerfoot speak. He k
nows where the rock is that Taggarak says shall be the meeting place between him and me. His command shall be obeyed. Deerfoot will be there, with only his knife to defend himself. He has said he does not fear the Blackfoot chieftain. Let my brothers speak of something else.”

  The boys and even Mul-tal-la were so full of the theme that it was hard for them to talk or think of anything beside. They would have questioned the Shawanoe as to his plans and intentions, but he would not permit. The hour was growing late, and the Blackfoot remained but a short time, when he bade all good-night and passed out of the tepee.

  Respecting the mood of Deerfoot, neither Victor nor George made any further reference to the momentous morrow. They disrobed and stretched out on their soft couches, while the Shawanoe, taking his Bible from the bosom of his hunting shirt, reclined on one elbow—his favorite attitude at such times—so that the light fell on the printed page. He read in his low, musical voice until, suspecting the truth, he paused and looked across at the brothers. Both were asleep. He smiled, read awhile longer to himself and then joined them in the land of dreams, sinking into slumber as quickly as they, and within the ten minutes following his own prayer.

  The morning dawned dull, chilly and clouded, with threats of snow in the air. The Shawanoe was the first to awake, and busied himself in his usual noiseless fashion with renewing the fire and preparing the morning meal from the antelope meat, of which enough was on hand to last for several meals. The salt and pepper brought by the boys from home had been used up long before, and they had accustomed themselves to get on without the condiments which seem so much of a necessity with us.

  The breakfast was eaten with the usual deliberation, none of the three speaking of the event that was impending, though the brothers were full of it. When Deerfoot arose, drew his knife from his girdle, carefully inspected it and then shoved it back in place and glanced across the room to where his rifle was leaning in one corner, Victor could keep silence no longer.

  “You know what faith we have in you, Deerfoot, but we are anxious, and shall be in distress until we see you back again.”

  “Why are my brothers troubled?” calmly asked the Shawanoe.

  “We can’t help believing Taggarak will use treachery, for he must know he isn’t certain to win when he attacks you.”

  “Nothing can make him believe the truth till it comes to him. He will take no warriors with him. Deerfoot is in no danger. Let my brothers smile and be glad.”

  “I wish I could grin, but it’s too hard work,” was the doleful response of Victor, the face of his brother showing that he felt the same.

  Deerfoot warmly shook hands with each in turn, such being his usual custom, stooped and drew the flap aside and passed from sight. Enough of the Blackfeet were astir to notice him moving at a moderate pace past the lodges toward the clearing at the rear of the village. He greeted all in their own language, and did not show by anything in his manner that he had any important matter in hand. He stealthily glanced here and there, on the lookout for Taggarak, but saw nothing of him. Perhaps the chief had already gone to the scene of the hostile meeting; perhaps he had not yet set out, for the hour was early, or, what was more likely, he had taken another route. Of one thing Deerfoot was certain: the chief had told no one of what was coming, except Mul-tal-la, who bore the message to the youth. When the two combatants should meet, no human eye must witness the terrific combat.

  The sagacious Shawanoe had decided to follow a certain line that may impress you as singular for him to adopt. It seemed like undue confidence when he declared that he had no fear of the man who was certainly the most fearful fighter of the whole Blackfoot tribe. Modest as he was by nature, Deerfoot was too intelligent not to understand his decisive superiority, as compared with any of his own or of the white race. That superiority had been proved too often to leave any doubt in his mind. Moreover, with his youth and high health, he was aware that these remarkable powers were not declining, but rather increasing, and ought to increase for a dozen or more years to come.

  The American Indian, as a rule, does not show excessive muscular development. Arms and legs are wanting in those ridged bunches of sinew which often bulge out all over our athletes. And yet more than one red man has displayed prodigious strength. Deerfoot believed he was stronger than Taggarak, despite his own light, graceful figure, which made him a dusky Adonis.

  He knew that possibly he was mistaken in this respect, but there could be no doubt on another point: he was much quicker of movement than the iron-limbed Taggarak. The open space would give full freedom to both, and this quickness would not be hampered at all during the fight between them. Moreover, Deerfoot was an unerring judge of distance, and knew on the instant when to dodge and when to strike. Therefore he feared not, but with that old Adamic strain in his nature, really yearned for the battle.

  It has long been the custom of Indians, when facing each other in mortal strife, to resort to taunts and insults. If a foe can be driven into anger, while his tormentor keeps cool, the latter has the victory half won. Deerfoot could not stifle a feeling of resentment over the contemptuous behavior of Taggarak toward him. Instead of contenting himself with merely challenging the Shawanoe to mortal combat, he sent him word that all that was left for him to do was to choose between two methods of shuffling off the mortal coil. It was to be the Spirit Circle or by the knife of the Blackfoot. This scornful treatment of the youth angered him, and it was one of the reasons why he decided to adopt a policy which in other circumstances he would have considered beneath a true warrior.

  CHAPTER XVII

  A Memorable Duel

  Deerfoot the Shawanoe, before entering the elevated wooded portion to the east of the bleak plain that had been the scene of his triumphs the day before, paused and carefully scrutinized all that lay within his field of vision. He was not altogether free from a shadowy suspicion that Taggarak would resort to treachery, though for reasons named by Mul-tal-la it was improbable. Despite the care the youth had used, he feared that rumors of the coming fight had got abroad, and some of the curious might brave the wrath of their chief for the sake of viewing the combat. That which Deerfoot saw, or rather failed to see, convinced him that both fears were unfounded.

  He recalled too clearly the spot named by the Blackfoot to make any mistake, and he went directly to it. A few rods beyond the rocks where Mul-tal-la and Deerfoot had caught sight of each other after their long separation was a comparatively clear and level space that covered a fourth of an acre or less. A glance showed it to be an ideal spot for a meeting such as was at hand.

  Deerfoot looked hastily around for Taggarak. He was not in sight. In truth, the Shawanoe was considerably ahead of time, and the chief was not a moment late when, after awhile, he strode into view from the other side of the arena.

  This famous chieftain has already been described. No one could look upon him without a certain admiration, and it was easy to believe the many stories of his prowess. He was spare of frame, nearly six feet tall, and his mien and manner showed perfect fearlessness. He wore no head dress, his abundant hair, in which there was not the first streaking of gray, falling loosely over his shoulders, almost to his waist. The upper part of his body was encased in a shirt of deerskin, and the buckskin breeches were fringed down the legs. Deerfoot noticed that he had on a new pair of moccasins, stained several bright colors. He must have thought the occasion warranted something in the nature of display. There was no skirt to the jacket-like garment, the thighs being inclosed with the buckskin which formed the leggings, after the manner of the modern style of trousers. The handle of his knife—the weapon that many a time had done frightful work—could be seen protruding from the girdle that encircled his waist.

  With a dignified step the chief strode forward until within a dozen paces of Deerfoot, when he paused and scowled at him.

  Following his policy of tantalism, Deerfoot made a mock bow and said:

  “Blackfoot, the Shawanoe is glad to see you come at last. But why doe
s the Blackfoot tremble when he finds himself in front of a warrior instead of a squaw who knows not how to fight?”

  The chief had never been addressed in this audacious fashion, and his eyes seemed to scintillate from under his scowling brows. Could it be he heard aright?

  “When the Shawanoe learned that the Blackfoot who calls himself chief and pretends to be a brave man wished to meet him in fight by this rock, the heart of the Shawanoe was glad and he hurried to come; but the Blackfoot is backward. He hoped the Shawanoe would not come, but he is here and eager to fight him.”

  And to show the truth of his words, Deerfoot drew his knife from his girdle and grasped it in his good left hand.

  Taggarak now found his voice. There was a tremulousness in the words, but it was due to his tumultuous wrath and not to fear.

  “Dog of a Shawanoe! Do you choose to die by the hand of Taggarak, or shall he send you to the Spirit Circle? Let him choose!”

  “Squaw of a Blackfoot! It shall be neither. The Shawanoe cares naught for the Spirit Circle, and will not go there. He has no fear of the Blackfoot who knows how to fight women but trembles when he stands before the Shawanoe! Has the Blackfoot brought some of his warriors to save him from the anger of the Shawanoe?”

  And Deerfoot glanced around, as if looking for the help which he knew was not near. He did not see it, but he saw something else, which caused him almost as much displeasure. As he turned toward a large boulder, half hidden by bushes, the upper part of a head dropped down out of sight. Seen only for an instant, the Shawanoe recognized the owner as Victor Shelton, and knew his brother was with him. Despite Deerfoot’s orders the boys had managed to steal their way from place to place and were spectators of this meeting. It was too late now to correct the wrong, and he acted as if he knew it not. All the same, he resolved to “discipline” the youths for disregarding his orders.