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 does
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.
[Illustration: A Memorable Duel.]
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 his 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!"