ENEMIES AND FRIENDS.
The black stallion knew his master was in trouble. Stepping forward he
thrust forward his nose and licked his face. Deerfoot rested one arm on
his mane, the other hand holding his rifle. Then Whirlwind, without a
word, kneeled on one knee, so as to lower his shoulders. With a single
hop the young Shawanoe leaped upon his back and the steed immediately
stood on all-fours.
"Now, my friend, show them what you can do in the way of running."
The incident had taken only a few moments, but brief as was the time it
had allowed the Assiniboines to decrease the space between them and the
Shawanoe. Singular as it seemed, they still failed to hurry. They held
their horses at a walk, and Deerfoot for the first time began to
suspect the truth.
Whirlwind was off with the speed of the wind. His motion gave pain to
the rider, but it was less than when he stood with one foot on the
ground. So long as he had the steed under him he felt little cause for
fear.
The theory which had suddenly assumed shape in the mind of Deerfoot was
that the pursuers wished to hold him in the ravine while another party
passed around to the other entrance. He would thus be placed between
two fires and his position made tenfold more perilous than ever. It may
be said that if this trick succeeded the doom of both Deerfoot and
Whirlwind would be sealed.
And it was precisely the stratagem which the Assiniboines had
attempted.
It will now be understood why the Shawanoe sent his steed flying up the
gorge at such a tremendous burst of speed that he rapidly drew away
from the group behind him. He meant to get out of the ravine before he
was shut off in front. No doubt longer remained that it was open at no
great distance in advance.
The space was less than a third of a mile after making the last turn.
Deerfoot would have been glad had it been greater, for that much more
opportunity would be given for the use of the stallion's fleetness.
The Shawanoe descried the open door. The walls fell away, leaving an
interval of a hundred yards between, the bottom of the ravine slightly
ascended, the ridges gradually dropped to the level of the earth, and
the country was spread out as before he rode into the canyon the night
previous.
From the back of the flying steed Deerfoot kept his eye on the space,
expecting every moment to see the other Assiniboines dash into view and
sweep down upon him. He had fixed his line of action. He would charge
straight at them, even if they numbered a dozen, using first his rifle
and then his knife, should a chance present itself to bring the latter
into play.
With every bound of Whirlwind the hopes of his rider rose. It looked as
if the race had been won by the superb stallion. A few more strides and
all his enemies would be thrown to the rear.
The next moment Whirlwind burst out of the ravine into the open
country, and in the same instant came face to face with another
horseman. He was the Assiniboine chieftain, who alone had ridden hard
along the side of the canyon on the ground above, in order to head off
the flying fugitive, and had arrived just in time to do so. He scorned
to take any companion with him, for he feared no living man and was
sure of overcoming the audacious stranger that had roused his fury.
The Assiniboine must have heard the thunder of the approaching hoofs,
for he had checked his own horse, on which he sat awaiting the
appearance of the Shawanoe. When the latter caught sight of his face he
had his rifle at his shoulder and was in the act of pressing the
trigger.
Deerfoot saw he had no time to use his own weapon, for quickly as he
might aim it the other would be discharged first. In the language of
the modern West, the Assiniboine "had the drop" on the Shawanoe.
There was but one thing to do, and Deerfoot did it in the twinkling of
an eye. He flung his body to the other side of his steed, sustaining
himself by bending his toes over the base of the stallion's neck. When
I add that the foot with which he performed this remarkable bit of
horsemanship was the one with the sprained ankle, you may faintly
imagine the wrenching torture he suffered. Only by a superhuman effort
did he keep control of his senses.
The Assiniboine fired at the moment of the lightning-like shift of
position, and Deerfoot heard the zip of the bullet as it sped across
the space covered less than a second before by his body.
There is a lurking devil in the most saintly disposition, and that
which slumbered in the breast of the young Shawanoe now flamed to a
white heat. Swinging back to the upright posture he called:
"Now, Whirlwind, run him down!"
[Illustration: "Now, Whirlwind, Run Him Down."]
The stallion felt the pressure of the knees, understood the command,
and ablaze with rage, charged like a cyclone for the other horse. In a
flash he crashed into the animal, hurling him sidelong to the earth and
rolling him completely over from the terrific force of the impact.
But his rider was a fine horseman and leaped to the ground before the
collision. Whirling about he faced the Shawanoe, with knife drawn, for
there was no time to reload his gun.
He was now at the mercy of Deerfoot, whose weapon was loaded. But for
the disabled limb he would have leaped to the earth and assailed the
other. He would have done the same had there been two enemies before
him; he would have done the same had there been three; but he was not
the fool to engage in a fight when he had but a single leg to stand
upon.
The panic-stricken horse, having clambered to his feet, dashed away.
Whirlwind assumed his statue-like pose and Deerfoot brought his rifle
to a level, with the Assiniboine staring into the muzzle.
The fight had been of the cyclone order, but, brief as it was, Deerfoot
had become himself again. He was the Christian who could not shed the
blood of one that was unable to defend himself, even though that one
was his deadly enemy.
The Assiniboine had dropped his gun when assuming his position at bay,
and it lay several feet away on the ground. Lowering his own weapon,
Deerfoot pointed after the fleeing horse and said sternly in the tongue
of the Blackfeet:
"Run! run after the horse!"
The gesture, as much as the words, explained the command. It was so
unparalleled, so utterly unexpected, that the Assiniboine stood in a
daze. Deerfoot knew that the report of the gun would speedily bring the
warriors to the spot, and there was not a minute to spare. He repeated
his order more sharply than before and accompanied it with a
threatening lifting of his gun to a level.
The other could not misunderstand the significance of voice and
gesture. He stepped forward to pick up his rifle.
"Stop!" shouted the Shawanoe, before the other could stoop. "Leave it
where it is! Follow the horse."
The hammer of the leveled rifle was at full cock. Still unable fully to
comprehend all that had taken place, the chieftain faced about and
broke into a lope after his horse, which acted as if it would keep up
its pace for the remainder of the day.
Deerfoot waited till the chief had gone a hundred paces, when heading
the other way he gave the word to Whirlwind, whom, however, he held
down to a walk. The rider wished to witness developments.
Looking back he saw the Assiniboine motionless and gazing after him
with emotions that can hardly be imagined or described. He stood thus
for a minute, when he started on a run to recover his rifle from where
it lay on the ground. Just before reaching the spot the party of
horsemen emerged from the mouth of the canyon and paused while their
leader rejoined them.
It would be interesting to know how he squared matters with his
warriors. It would have required a vivid imagination and a genius in
the way of invention to explain how it was his horse was just vanishing
in the distance; how the chief was in the act of recovering his weapon,
and more than all, how it came about that the youthful warrior of a
strange tribe, who had already slain one Assiniboine--though that was
yet unknown to this party--was riding leisurely off on the back of the
special pet of the chieftain. If the Assiniboine was wise he made a
clean breast of it, and insisted that the dusky stranger was a marvel
in his way whom it was exceedingly unwise to push into a corner.
The chagrin of the Assiniboine party was not soothed by the action of
Deerfoot, who, having spared the life of an enemy, felt himself
justified in "rubbing it in," so to speak. He faced Whirlwind toward
the group, held him motionless, and, swinging his rifle over his head,
indulged in a series of tantalizing shouts that were anything but
soothing to the chief and his friends. How they ached to get the
terrible young warrior into their power! What exquisite vengeance they
would have wreaked upon him!
But such bliss was impossible. They knew what speed the black stallion
possessed, and it was not supposable that his rider meant to challenge
all of them to combat. So they maintained a glum silence as he rode
from view.
Meanwhile, Deerfoot found he must give attention to the ankle, whose
condition had been aggravated by the fight with the Assiniboine leader.
It was much swollen and the pain was torturing. Still his bravery and
self-command prevented anything in the nature of murmuring. In truth,
he would have suffered death without outcry.
The remarkable youth found a strange consolation. He was familiar with
the story of the Saviour's death on the cross and remembered the nails
that were driven through the hands and feet.
"_He_ suffered from four wounds, besides having a spear thrust into his
side. Deerfoot has only one hurt in his foot and that does not bleed.
_He_ had the weight of the world's guilt crushing his heart. What are
Deerfoot's sufferings compared with His? It is my Father's will and
therefore the heart of Deerfoot is glad."
Failing to see a sign of strangers in the neighborhood, the Shawanoe
drew Whirlwind down to a walk and halted at the first mountain stream,
which happened to be no larger than the one where he had broiled his
supper the night before.
The moment Whirlwind saw that his master wished to dismount he sank
upon both knees. His sympathetic act touched Deerfoot, who, stepping
carefully upon the well limb, patted the neck of the steed and thanked
him.
"Deerfoot would be helpless but for Whirlwind. They must now stick
together as never before."
Hopping to the brook the youth slipped off his moccasin and removed the
stocking. The swollen ankle was as sensitive as a boil. Dipping the
stocking in the icy water he rang it almost dry and rubbed the limb,
gently at first and then more vigorously until it was in a glow. This
was soothing and gave partial relief, but much pain remained. An injury
of that nature takes a long time to subside.
Having never suffered from illness or wounds, the Shawanoe was without
any remedy at command, nor did he know aught of the many medicaments
which his race, as well as the white people, use. Had the hurt been a
simple cut or wound he would have given it no heed, but his sprain
forced itself upon his notice.
He finished rubbing the ankle and carefully drew on the stocking, with
Whirlwind sympathetically watching him, and doubtless longing for some
method of giving relief. I wonder whether the creature recalled that
day, many weeks before, when his young master rubbed his injured knee
so tenderly and ministered to him until he had fully recovered. We
cannot fathom the mysteries of the brain in animals of a high order of
intelligence, and it is not for us to deny that such might have been
the fact.
Suddenly the stallion turned toward a pile of rocks to the left and
emitted his faint, warning neigh. Deerfoot was up in a twinkling,
despite the additional suffering caused by his action, and seized his
rifle resting near. As he did so an Indian appeared from behind the
rocks and came toward him. A glance showed him to be the dwarf with
whom Deerfoot had had his singular meeting when journeying northward.
The red man of short stature took long wabbling strides, made numerous
gestures and grimaces and rapidly uttered words, not one of which was
understood by the Shawanoe. Still chattering, gesticulating and
grinning he came forward, without heeding the black steed, flung his
long bow to the ground, and kneeling down, gently lifted the foot of
Deerfoot, who had not yet drawn on his moccasin. The visitor saw that
the limb was injured and tenderly rested the foot upon his knee, the
owner thereof making no objection, gently turned down the stocking and
spent a minute or two in inspecting the swollen ankle. Then with a
sympathetic aspiration he slowly stroked it with his hand. In doing so
he drew downward each time and never rubbed the surface upward.
There is something in magnetism, and Deerfoot was sure of a slight
cessation of the pain, though the relief was not marked. When the
caressing had been repeated a number of times, the dwarf softly laid
the foot on the ground and rose to his feet. Another vigorous discharge
of unintelligible words followed, and he wabbled rapidly off beyond the
rocks from behind which he had come a short time before.
Since he left his bow lying on the ground where he had flung it,
Deerfoot knew he had gone in quest of some remedy and would soon
return. He therefore kept his seat on the ground and patiently awaited
the other's coming.
In a few minutes the dwarf reappeared, bearing in his hand a bunch of
green leaves. The twigs were pinnated, and at the base of each leaflet,
where it joined the common peticle, was a single crimson berry,
resembling the common wintergreen, but the genus was unknown to the
Shawanoe, though he knew something of medicinal herbs.
Dividing the twigs with their leaves and berries into halves, the good
Samaritan laid one pile on the ground, pointing to it, and still
chattering. Deerfoot knew he wished to direct his attention to the
healing plant, and he nodded his head to signify he understood and
would remember his request.
Then, as deftly as a girl, the dusky friend picked the berries from the
twigs in the other bunch. They filled the palm of one hand, which he
held out for Deerfoot to inspect. The Shawanoe nodded again. The other
wabbled back to the rocks, but did not pass out of sight. Picking up a
bit of stone, he began crushing the berries upon a projection of the
rocks. It took but a brief time to turn them into a yellow, sticky mass
which emitted a slightly aromatic odor. Returning to the patient, he
skillfully spread the poultice on several of the larger leaves, laid
them over and around the swollen ankle, and then, as gently as a mother
with her babe, drew the stocking over it, so as to hold the poultice in
place.
Deerfoot leaned back, resting his body on his elbows, and heaved a
long, grateful sigh. The relief was bliss itself. For a minute or two
he believed the injury was fully healed, but a slight movement of the
foot proved that this was not the fact. Nevertheless, the effect of the
crushed berries was magical. As he looked up in the homely, twisted
countenance, his expression spoke his gratitude. The dwarf grinned. The
language of thankfulness needs no interpreter. Deerfoot came to the
upright posture, and, reaching forward, took one of the stranger's
hands in his own and patted it, murmuring his thanks.
The dwarf pointed to the twigs and berries remaining untouched and said
something, which was made clear by the rapid flitting of his forefinger
from them to the wounded member. The meaning was plain. The patient was
to use them as the others had been used. Deerfoot signified in his
usual way that he understood the direction.
The dwarf stood for a few minutes silent, with his eyes on the face of
the Shawanoe seated before him. Then he spoke again, and Deerfoot would
have given much to have understood the words, but he could not form the
remotest idea of their meaning. The visitor stopped and picked up his
bow from the ground, turned and swung with his awkward gait up the
slight slope, passed from sight behind the pile of rocks, and the
Shawanoe never saw or heard of him again.