How frequently that "slip 'twixt the cup and the lip" is observed in the
affairs of this life! Little Tim, the trapper, had barely pronounced
the words "All safe," when an appalling yell rent the air, and a cloud
of dark forms was seen to rush over the open space that lay between the
wigwams of the old chief Bald Eagle and a thicket that grew on its
westward side.
The Blackfoot band had taken the slumbering Indians completely by
surprise, and Whitewing had the mortification of finding that he had
arrived just a few minutes too late to warn his friends. Although Bald
Eagle was thus caught unprepared, he was not slow to meet the enemy.
Before the latter had reached the village, all the fighting men were up,
and armed with bows, scalping-knives, and tomahawks. They had even time
to rush towards the foe, and thus prevent the fight from commencing in
the midst of the village.
The world is all too familiar with the scenes that ensued. It is not
our purpose to describe them. We detest war, regarding it in
ninety-nine cases out of a hundred as unnecessary. Sufficient to say
here that the overwhelming numbers of the Blackfoot Indians were too
much for their enemies. They soon began to overpower and drive them
back towards the wigwams, where the poor women and children were huddled
together in terror.
Before this point had arrived, however, Whitewing and Little Tim were
galloping to the rescue. The former knew at a glance that resistance on
the part of his friends would be hopeless. He did not therefore gallop
straight down to the field of battle to join them, but, turning sharply
aside with his friend, swept along one of the bottoms or hollows between
the undulations of the plain, where their motions could not be seen as
they sped along. Whitewing looked anxiously at Little Tim, who,
observing the look, said:--
"I'm with 'ee, Whitewing, niver fear."
"Does my brother know that we ride to death?" asked the Indian in an
earnest tone.
"Yer brother don't know nothin' o' the sort," replied the trapper, "and,
considerin' your natur', I'd have expected ye to think that Manitou
might have some hand in the matter."
"The white man speaks wisely," returned the chief, accepting the reproof
with a humbled look. "We go in His strength."
And once again the latter part of the preacher's text seemed to shoot
through the Indian's brain like a flash of light--"looking unto Jesus."
Whitewing was one of those men who are swift to conceive and prompt in
action. Tim knew that he had a plan of some sort in his head, and,
having perfect faith in his capacity, forbore to advise him, or even to
speak. He merely drew his hunting-knife, and urged his steed to its
utmost speed, for every moment of time was precious. The said
hunting-knife was one of which Little Tim was peculiarly fond. It had
been presented to him by a Mexican general for conspicuous gallantry in
saving the life of one of his officers in circumstances of extreme
danger. It was unusually long and heavy, and, being double-edged, bore
some resemblance to the short, sword of the ancient Romans.
"It'll do some execution before I go down," thought Tim, as he regarded
the bright blade with an earnest look.
But Tim was wrong. The blade was not destined to be tarnished that day.
In a very few minutes the two horsemen galloped to the thicket which had
concealed the enemy. Entering this they dashed through it as fast as
possible until they reached the other side, whence they could see the
combatants on the plain beyond. All along they had heard the shouts and
yells of battle.
For one moment Whitewing drew up to breathe his gallant steed, but the
animal was roused by that time, and it was difficult to restrain him.
His companion's horse was also nearly unmanageable.
"My brother's voice is strong. Let him use it well," said the chief
abruptly.
"Ay, ay," replied the little trapper, with an intelligent chuckle; "go
ahead, my boy. I'll give it out fit to bu'st the bellows."
Instantly Whitewing shot from the wood, like the panther rushing on his
prey, uttering at the same time the tremendous war-cry of his tribe.
Little Tim followed suit with a roar that was all but miraculous in its
tone and character, and may be described as a compound of the
steam-whistle and the buffalo bull, only with something about it
intensely human. It rose high above the din of battle. The combatants
heard and paused. The two horsemen were seen careering towards them
with furious gesticulations. Red Indians seldom face certain death.
The Blackfoot men knew that an attack by only two men would be sheer
insanity; the natural conclusion was that they were the leaders of a
band just about to emerge from the thicket. They were thus taken in
rear. A panic seized them, which was intensified when Little Tim
repeated his roar and flourished the instrument of death, which he
styled his "little carving-knife." The Blackfeet turned and fled right
and left, scattering over the plains individually and in small groups,
as being the best way of baffling pursuit.
With that sudden access of courage which usually results from the
exhibition of fear in a foe, Bald Eagle's men yelled and gave chase.
Bald Eagle himself, however, had the wisdom to call them back.