The Edward S. Ellis Megapack

by Edward S. Ellis

  In this game of abuse the chief was no match for the Shawanoe, who saw that the tempestuous rage of Taggarak threatened to master him. Accustomed throughout his life to be feared and obeyed, it was unbearable thus to be flouted to his face by a stripling, whom he felt able to crush like a bird’s egg. He drew his knife, whose blade was several inches longer than the weapon of the Shawanoe.

  With the weapon clinched as if in a vise, the chief thrust his left foot forward for a single pace, but did not advance farther. He was debating with himself how best to dispose of this intolerable youth. A quick death would be too merciful; he would first wound and then prolong his suffering for an hour or more.

  “The trembling Blackfoot fears to come to the Shawanoe, so the Shawanoe will go to him.”

  These words were accompanied with an exquisite sneer, and Deerfoot advanced three paces, taking care to stop before he was within reach of the enraged chief.

  “Does the Shawanoe think the God he worships can save him from the vengeance of Taggarak, who spurns that God?”

  The reply was a noble one. Dropping his insulting tones and manner, Deerfoot said:

  “The Shawanoe knows not whether the God he worships will save him; he never cares nor thinks of that. He knows that whatever his Father chooses to do is right, and if He does not wish to take care of the Shawanoe, it is right. He will go to heaven, the abode of those who obey God, when he is called. He will be ready, whether he hears that call in the gloom of the woods at midnight or on the plain when the sun is high in the sky.

  “The Blackfoot worships false gods. Let him learn whether they will help him when he stands in front of the Shawanoe.”

  The self-confidence of the chief was absolute. Wearied of listening to the taunts of the dusky Apollo, he strode toward him, raising his right hand as he did so, feinted once and then brought down the weapon with a vicious vigor that was meant to bury the point in the shoulder of Deerfoot.

  The blade, however, swished through air, and the youth smote the chief squarely in the mouth with the back of his fist. He could have used his knife, but he chose to play awhile with this boaster. He delivered his blow so quickly that the Blackfoot, accustomed as he was to fierce hand-to-hand fighting, had no time to dodge or parry, and the next instant the Shawanoe was ten feet away, weapon still grasped, and grinning at the slightly dazed chief.

  “Why does not the Blackfoot squaw strike the Shawanoe? The Shawanoe has struck him. Cannot the Blackfoot see where to strike with his knife? He is as slow as an aged woman, but he fears the Shawanoe, who is his master.”

  Taggarak could not believe his failure was anything more than one of those accidents to which the most skilful fighter is sometimes liable. His weapon was still firm in his hand, and he moved forward again, taking shorter and more stealthy steps. He crouched as if gathering his muscles for a leap, while the Shawanoe contemptuously watched him, alert and observant as a cat.

  Six feet away the chief halted. Deerfoot did not stir. Taggarak had learned of the lightning-like quickness of the youth, but felt none the less certain of speedily overcoming him.

  For a full minute the two glared at each other, neither speaking, but the same aggravating, scornful smile was on the face of the young Shawanoe. Suddenly he did an astounding thing. He tossed his knife several feet up in the air, caught it by the handle as it came down and then flung it a couple of rods to one side.

  “The Shawanoe needs no weapon to conquer the Blackfoot squaw!”

  Then Deerfoot voluntarily placed himself in front of the furious warrior, without any weapon with which to defend himself. Not only that, he folded his arms over his breast and with biting irony added:

  “Now let the Blackfoot think he has a squaw in front of him; then he will strike hard, if his hand does not tremble.”

  It was more than flesh and blood could stand. The passion within the breast of the chief broke into a volcano-like flame. With a hissing gasp he sprang forward, striking swiftly with his knife, first downward, then upward and then from side to side, as if he meant to cut the execrated youth into ribbons. He repeated the wild blows with a celerity that almost prevented the eye from following the movements.

  But, as before, he split only vacancy. Deerfoot easily eluded the strokes, which were blinder than usual, for Taggarak was beside himself with passion. In the midst of his aimless outburst the Shawanoe did another thing which was worthy of a skilled pugilist. Waiting for an opening, he shot his left hand forward, and, with the open palm, landed a stunning blow on the bridge of the chief’s nose. The advantage of such a blow is that, when rightly delivered, tears are forced into the eyes of the one receiving it, who, for a minute or two, is partially blinded. You can understand his fatal position. He cannot pause to clear his vision, for it comes at the crisis of the fight, and an instant halting means ignominious defeat, while to persevere, when he has only the partial use of his sight, makes his disadvantage hardly the less.

  While the chief was savagely blinking, in order to enable him to see, the crowning taunt of all sounded in his ears:

  “The Blackfoot cries like a pappoose. Does he wish to tread the Spirit Circle? Does he beg the Shawanoe to be merciful to him? If he whines for pity, let him sink on his knees and the Shawanoe will listen to his crying.”

  Chief Taggarak now lost the last shred of self-control. With a growl of crazy rage he bounded forward again, striking up and down and right and left with a blind, venomous energy that would have exhausted a giant.

  Suddenly the wrist which held the whistling blade was seized in the steel-like fingers of Deerfoot’s left hand. The grip was fearful, for the Shawanoe had now called upon his last reserve of strength, and the wrist was as if encased in a coil of iron. Then, with a peculiar twist of his hand, known only to himself, and resembling that remarkable system known under the name of jiu jitsu among the Japanese, who are the only ones that understand it in all its frightful perfection, he bent the hand of the chief remorselessly over and backward, until the palm gaped like the mouth of a dying fish and the knife dropped to the ground.

  Deerfoot now had both wrists imprisoned. Taggarak gasped and panted and writhed, but could not twist himself loose. In the trial of strength the Shawanoe proved himself the superior. Great drops gathered on the forehead of the Blackfoot. His grin displayed every molar in his head, and the mouth, stretched to double its usual extent, had that horrible appearance when the space between the lips at the corners is the same as in front and the expression is that of a raging wild beast.

  Thus the two stood, their arms sawing up and down and from one side to another, without the Blackfoot being able to loosen the merciless grip. He was panting, but no one could have detected any quickening of the respiration of the Shawanoe. His mouth was set and the light of battle flashed in his eyes. He did not speak or yield a point. The crisis had come and he knew he was the victor, just as he knew he would be from the first.

  The Blackfoot swayed and his moccasins slid here and there over the ground from the contortion of limbs and body. Then he began pushing with might and main. His eyes were beginning to clear, but the perspiration dripped from the twisted coppery features. Reading his purpose, Deerfoot began pushing also. Neither yielded for a minute or two, and then the chief was slowly forced backward. There was no withstanding the tremendous power of the youth, who strove to the last ounce of his matchless strength.

  Taggarak recoiled a step, then another, then began walking backward, and the next minute the walk became a trot on the part of both, the chief retreating and the Shawanoe forcing him faster and faster, though he struggled and resisted with the same panting desperation as at first.

  He was still trotting backward with short, increasing steps when Deerfoot, never relaxing his grasp on the writhing wrists, thrust one heel behind his enemy, who tripped and went over. To insure due emphasis in the fall, Deerfoot made a leap as he was going and landed with both knees on the breast of the Blackfoot, who dropped with a thump that forced a gasp from hi
s body and literally shook the earth.

  George and Victor Shelton, in their excitement, sprang up from behind the rock that hid them. When Taggarak went over on his back, with Deerfoot bearing him down, Victor could restrain himself no longer. Snatching his cap from his head he swung it aloft, and had opened his mouth to cheer when the slightly less excited brother clapped his hand over his lips.

  “What do you mean, you idiot?”

  “I want to cheer for Deerfoot! If I don’t I’ll bust!”

  “You will get all the busting you want from him if he finds out we came here, after he told us to stay at home.”

  “By gracious! That’s so; I forgot it. I’m glad you stopped me; we must keep mum. Look!”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Discipline in the Rankst

  The force of the impact and the crushing weight of the Shawanoe’s body knocked Taggarak senseless for the moment. He lay panting, with eyes half closed and his countenance glistening with moisture.

  Deerfoot, without removing his knees, watched the eyes until they slowly opened and glared upward with a dazed expression. The youth had removed his fingers from the wrist of the chief. He now bent his face close to his and asked:

  “Who now is master—the Blackfoot or the Shawanoe? Whose God is the greater—Taggarak’s or Deerfoot’s?”

  But the chieftain was game. He had put up a hurricane fight and had been conquered—conquered by a youth who carried no weapon in his hand, and who could have driven out his life at any moment during the progress of the battle. Instead of slaying his victim, the Shawanoe had put one indignity after another upon him.

  “Let the Shawanoe take his knife and kill Taggarak! He does not wish to live!”

  “So Taggarak would do with the Shawanoe, but so does not the Shawanoe, for he is a Christian,” replied Deerfoot, rising from the prostrate body and stepping back for a couple of paces.

  The Blackfoot was still bewildered. He lay motionless for a few seconds, staring at the youth looking serenely down upon him. The chief had been conquered, absolutely, crushingly and to the last degree humiliatingly; for, most amazing thing of all, his conqueror had refused to take his life, knowing that it would have been the other way had the Shawanoe suffered defeat.

  And he who showed this unheard-of mercy professed to be a Christian! What a strange religion to make a warrior act in that manner!

  Slowly the iron-limbed chieftain climbed to his feet. He was not looking at the Shawanoe, who had folded his arms and was calmly watching him. Taggarak stood upright, turned his face away, took three steps and then paused. His head flirted about like a bird’s and he fixed his burning eyes upon the dusky youth, still posed like a statue, with arms folded and on the alert for any treachery.

  The Blackfoot gazed steadily into the eyes that met his own without flinching. He did not speak, but, looking away again, strode solemnly across the open space, not pausing to pick up his weapon, and disappeared in the rocky wood.

  Deerfoot remained motionless for several moments, gazing at the point where the other had passed from sight. Then he reverently turned his eyes upward and murmured:

  “I thank Thee, my Heavenly Father. Thou art kinder to Deerfoot than he deserves.”

  His next act was most peculiar. He paid no heed to the knife of Taggarak, but picked up his own. It had a keen edge, and instead of thrusting the weapon into his girdle he walked to the nearest undergrowth and began cutting a stick several feet in length and of nearly an inch’s thickness at the butt.

  About this time George and Victor Shelton, from their hiding place, where they had stealthily watched everything, began to feel disturbed in mind.

  “What do you suppose he is doing that for?” whispered Victor, peeping around the corner of the rock.

  “I’m blessed if I know. He is trimming off the twigs, so as to make the stick smooth.”

  “Do you suppose he saw us?”

  “He couldn’t. He has mighty sharp eyes, but he had no chance to look anywhere except in the face of Taggarak, and we haven’t shown ourselves since he left.”

  “It’s a queer performance anyway, and I don’t feel—”

  “Sh! He’s looking this way.”

  The next moment both boys shivered, for, facing the rock which until then they were certain had hid them from view, the Shawanoe called:

  “Let my brothers come here. Deerfoot wishes to speak to them.”

  “He saw us after all!” gasped Victor. “Let’s run!”

  “What good will that do? There’s no getting away from him.”

  “He looks savage, George; he means business. Can’t we combine and lick him if he tries to play smart with us?”

  “If we could get Mul-tal-la and three or four other Blackfeet we might have a show; but it would take more than you and me to down him. Come, it won’t do to wait any longer.”

  The brothers were pretty well convinced of what was coming and were scared. To Victor only one possible escape presented itself—that was to conciliate the Shawanoe. The lad made a brave attempt to do so.

  Coming out from behind the rock, he strode rapidly down the gentle slope, as if he had just recognized the youth. Victor’s face was aglow, and he certainly meant all he said:

  “I tell you, Deerfoot, that was the greatest victory you ever won! I don’t believe the man ever lived that downed Taggarak, and yet you did it without any weapon. People won’t believe the story, but you can refer them to us. Ain’t it lucky, now, that we happened to be where we could see you lay out that boasting chief?”

  George caught at the straw thus held out by his brother.

  “I tell you that’s so, Deerfoot. The news of this fight is bound to get out sooner or later. Some who don’t know you won’t believe anything of the kind, till we tell them we saw the whole business and it was just as you say. Ain’t you glad, Deerfoot, we happened by chance to be where we could see it all?”

  The Shawanoe had thrust his knife into his girdle and held the switch firmly by its larger end. He looked gravely into the face of each lad while he was speaking. When they ceased he had something to say:

  “When Deerfoot and his brothers left Woodvale was it not said that the Shawanoe should rule and guide them?”

  “There can’t be any question of that,” Victor promptly replied.

  “And my brothers promised to obey him in all things?”

  “It seems to me I remember something of that kind.”

  “Has Deerfoot been a hard master?”

  “We couldn’t have had a kinder one. I tell you, Deerfoot, you know more in five minutes than George and I know in a month, or ever will know. We couldn’t get along without you. We have been pretty obedient, as a rule, haven’t we?”

  “Was not the agreement between Taggarak and Deerfoot that no person should look upon the fight between them?”

  “Yes; but I don’t believe Taggarak kept his promise.”

  Deerfoot flashed a look of inquiry at Victor.

  “What does my brother mean by his words? Did he see any other Blackfoot near?”

  “Well, not exactly; but there were marks in the bushes which looked as if made by moccasins. I shouldn’t wonder if some were hiding there and ran away when they saw us coming and knew we meant to see you had fair play.”

  The appeal was wasted. Deerfoot took his station between the brothers, moving them apart so they were separated by a space of five or six feet. He then deliberately, vigorously and impartially laid the switch over the shoulders of George and Victor. You would not suspect the vim with which this disciplining was carried out. Only the brothers themselves could testify feelingly as to that.

  And the boys had to “grin and bear it,” for there was no escape for them. It was useless to run, and had they tried it they would have been punished more severely. They were too proud to complain. The quicker-tempered Victor wanted to revolt and attack the Shawanoe, but he knew George would not join him, for such rebellion would have been disastrous to them. They had tested th
e ability of Deerfoot in that line too often to doubt his superiority. Had the shadow of a doubt lingered, the scene they had witnessed a few minutes before would have dispelled it.

  The rod descended first upon the shoulders of Victor, then upon those of George, and there was no difference in the force of the blows. Oh, how they stung! Each boy wanted to scratch the smarting parts, but grimly stood it out. Finally Victor ventured to say:

  “When you are tired, Deerfoot, you have our permission to stop.”

  “Tired! He won’t get tired in a week. Our only hope is that he will use up all the switches in the country.”

  And the Shawanoe kept at it till the rod broke in the middle and only the stump was left in his hand. He flung that aside, and, without speaking, turned and walked toward the village. As soon as his face was turned the boys devoted their efforts to rubbing and scratching their arms, shoulders and backs.

  “How many times do you think he struck us?” ruefully asked George.

  “I guess about four thousand; but I forgot to count.”

  “He started in with you and ended with me, so we both got the same. Gracious alive, but he knows his business!”

  “Anyhow, what we saw was worth all we had to pay. I didn’t think he would do anything of the kind, did you?”

  “No; I thought we might keep our visit a secret, but not many things escape his eye. I suppose after all he was right.”

  “Wait till these smarts let up a little before you ask me to say that,” replied Victor, still rubbing and fidgeting about. “Can’t you think of some way of getting even with him?”

  “I wish I could, but the worst thing anyone can do is to tackle Deerfoot. We must try to believe we were lucky in getting off as lightly as we did.”

  “Lightly!” sniffed Victor. “I should like to know what you call heavy if that is light.”

  “And he is still mad at us. He went off without speaking, and it may be days before he gets over his anger.”

  Bye and bye the smarts so subsided that the boys felt comparatively comfortable. As they picked their way homeward their resentment cooled, and they were able to see things in their proper light. They profoundly loved and admired the young Shawanoe, and required no one to remind them of his affection for them. The punishment he had administered was like that of a father to a wayward child. Moreover, it was well deserved, and they were willing to confess the fact before they reached their tepee.