OLD FRIENDS.
The discharge of the second arrow over the head and shoulders of Ned
Preston and Wildblossom Brown lent wings to their flight; instead of
coming to a standstill, as they did a short time before, they bent all
their energies to escape, and ran with the utmost speed.
In such an effort the advantage was on the side of Ned as compared
with the negro, for he was much more fleet of foot, and, as a
consequence, within two or three minutes he was almost beyond sight.
"Hold on dar!" shouted Blossom; "dat aint de fair ting to leave a chap
dat way."
Ned Preston could not desert the lad in this fashion, though it would
not help him to stay behind and share his fate.
But his own disposition and the training received from his father led
him to reproach himself for leaving him even for so short a time. He
therefore stopped, and called back--
"Hurry, Blossom; every minute counts."
"Dat's jes' what I am a doin'," panted Blossom, struggling forward;
"but I never could run as well as you----"
At that moment Ned Preston, who was looking toward the African, caught
sight of an Indian close behind him. The warrior was in close pursuit,
though the intervening vegetation for the moment prevented the young
pioneer from seeing him distinctly. Enough was visible, however, to
make his aim sure, and Ned brought his rifle to his shoulder.
"I hear de Injines! Dey're right behind me!" shouted the terrified
Blossom; "get 'em in range, Ned, and shoot 'em all!"
Such a performance as this was out of the question, as a matter of
course, but the boy was determined to do his utmost to help his
friend.
When Ned raised his gun there was but the single warrior visible, and
the sight of him was indistinct; but it was enough to make the aim
certain, and the youth felt that one red man was certain to pay for
his vindictiveness. At the same time he wondered why no others were
seen.
But at the very moment the finger of Ned was pressing the trigger, the
Indian disappeared as suddenly as if he had dropped through the mouth
of a cavern. The target at which the gun was aimed had vanished.
Mystified and astounded, Ned Preston lowered his piece and stared at
the point where the red man was last seen, as if he doubted his own
senses. At the same moment a suppressed whoop was heard, and the
warrior stepped to view from behind the sycamore, where he had leaped
to dodge the bullet of the rifle which he saw aimed at him.
Ned was in the act of raising his gun again, when he almost let it
fall from his grasp, with the exclamation--
"DEERFOOT!"
As the single word fell from his lips, his eyes rested on the figure
of a young Indian of singular grace and beauty, who, without regarding
the bewildered Blossom, walked forward to greet Ned Preston.
[Illustration: THE MEETING WITH DEERFOOT.]
Deerfoot the Shawanoe, at the most, was no more than a year older than
young Preston. He was about the same height, but of lighter mould, and
with a length of lower limbs and a suppleness of frame which
betokened great natural abilities as a runner: when we add that these
capabilities had been cultivated to the highest point, it will not
seem unreasonable that Deerfoot's unequalled swiftness of foot was
known to several tribes besides his own.
Although a Shawanoe by birth (which tribe at that day had their
hunting-grounds north of the Ohio), Deerfoot roamed through the
forests south, and the exploits of the youth in running were told in
the lodges by the camp-fires of the Shawanoe, the Wyandot, the Miami,
the Delaware, and the Cherokee.
His expertness with the bow and arrow, his bravery in battle, his
skill on the hunt, the fact that his mother was shot by settlers, and
his father was killed in the famous Crawford expedition, caused
Deerfoot to be formally ranked as a warrior when he was only fourteen
years of age.
His deftness with his primitive weapons was no less remarkable than
his fleetness of foot. Had he been living to-day, he would have taken
the prize at the annual archery tournaments, even though he used a
hickory bow instead of the double-backed yew or lancewood, and his
missiles were made of the former material, with a single feather
instead of the three, and were tied instead of being glued in place.
The bow and arrows of Deerfoot would have made a sorry show among
those of the fair ladies and graceful gentlemen at the archery
contests in these times; but those same shafts of the dusky American,
with the keen flint or iron heads, had been driven by him with such
prodigious force that they had found the heart of the deer or bear or
bison at scarcely less than a hundred yards.
Deerfoot therefore refused to use the rifle, but clung to the bow,
whose use he began studying when he was less than three years old.
As we have said, the young Shawanoe, now no more than seventeen years
of age, was graceful of figure, with elastic, supple limbs, and with a
perfect symmetry of frame. When he smiled, which happened now and
then, he disclosed two rows of teeth as white, even, and beautiful,
and free from decay, as ever existed. The nose was slightly aquiline,
the eyes as black and piercing as those of a serpent, the forehead
high, the cheek bones slightly prominent, the whole expression
pervaded by that slight tinge of melancholy which seems to be the
characteristic of the American race.
Deerfoot's costume and dress were those of the defiant warrior, who
was the implacable foe of the white man. His hair, as long, black and
coarse as that of a horse's mane, was gathered in a knot or scalp-lock
on the crown, where it was tied and ornamented with eagle feathers,
that were stained several brilliant hues; his hunting-shirt encased
his sinewy arms, chest and waist, the ornamented skirt descending to
his knees. The whole garment, made of buckskin obtained from the
traders, was of a yellow color, the fringe being a deep crimson.
Deerfoot shared the love of his people for flaring colors, as was
shown by his handsomely decorated moccasins which encased his shapely
feet, the various-hued fringes of his leggings, the string of bright
beads around his neck, and the golden bracelet that he wore on his
left wrist.
The red leathern belt, which clasped the waist of the young Shawanoe,
formed a pretty contrast to the pale yellow of the hunting-shirt, and,
a short distance off, would have been taken for the crimson sash worn
by the civilized officer of modern times.
Behind this belt were thrust a tomahawk and hunting-knife, both keen
of edge and terribly effective in the hands of the owner. The bundle
of arrows was supported by a string passing around the neck, the
missiles themselves resting behind the shoulder, the feathered points
plainly seen by any one as they projected upward in front. In this
place they were so accessible that Deerfoot, in discharging them at a
foe or an animal, would have two or three in the air at the same time,
there being what might be called a procession of arrows from the bow
to the target, whatever it might be.
In the coldest weather, the youthful warrior gathered a heavy blanket
about his shoulders, which hid all his figure, from his chin down to
his twinkling moccasins. During the sultry season he occasionally
threw off his hunting-shirt, except the skirt, so that arm, chest and
neck were covered only by the rude figures which the mother had
tattooed there by a most painful process during the days when
Pa-wa-oo-pa, or Deerfoot, was a stoical papoose, tied to a flat piece
of bark, and swinging in the tree branches, or lying motionless on the
ground with limbs tied, and calmly watching the torturing operation
with the bravery which is a part of the nature of the dusky hunters
of the forest.
The bow of Deerfoot was of seasoned hickory, the string was dried
sinew, and the weapon itself was all of six feet in length; so that,
in discharging it, he did not hold it perpendicular, as is the rule,
but in a slanting position; in short, the young Shawanoe violated more
than one fundamental regulation in archery, but the fact remained that
he could spit the gray squirrel on the top of the tallest oak; he
could bring down the buck when leaping through the air; he had driven
his sharp-pointed shaft through the shaggy body of the bison, and had
brought the eagle flapping and dying to the ground when circling in
the clear air far above his head.
Two years before, Deerfoot was the most vindictive enemy of the
pioneers, who had slain both his father and mother. While attacking
some settlers' cabins near Maysville, with nearly a score of other
Shawanoes, they were surprised and almost annihilated by a party of
whites led by Macaiah Preston, father of Ned. Deerfoot was wounded and
taken captive. He fought like a young tiger, and the settlers, who
knew his extraordinary skill and the injury he had done them,
insisted on putting him to death.
But Macaiah Preston interposed, and would not permit it. He took him
to his own home, and carefully nursed him back to rugged health and
strength.
On the part of the good Samaritan he was assisted by his wife and Ned,
who formed a strong attachment for the captive Shawanoe. The young
brave more than reciprocated this friendship, the sentiment of
gratitude being the most characteristic trait in his nature. He became
henceforth the unfaltering ally and friend of the white race; from the
bitterest enemy he was transformed into the most devoted friend, his
fervency, like that of Saul of Tarsus, being as extreme as was his
previous hatred.
The better to aid the settlers, Deerfoot returned to his own people,
and kept up the semblance of enmity toward the pioneers. He even took
part in several expeditions against them, but all proved disastrous
failures to the assailants, and the youth did most effective service
for those whom he had fought so fiercely a short time before.
It was of the utmost importance to Deerfoot that his true sentiments
and real doings should be concealed from his people; for whenever the
truth should become known to them, the most frightful death that could
be conceived would be visited upon him.
The daring warrior believed his secret must be discovered; he believed
he would fall a victim to their terrible vengeance sooner or later;
but he was none the less faithful to the settlers. He simply resolved
that he would never submit tamely to his fate; but, if the aborigines
secured him for torment, it would be done by superior daring and
subtlety.
Thus it was that the youthful Shawanoe was playing a most perilous and
dangerous part; but he had played it so well that not until to-day had
he seen just cause to believe any suspicion was afloat concerning
himself.
The action of the Wyandots indicated that they preferred not to trust
him with their secret. It was the first time anything of the kind had
occurred, and it could not but cause uneasiness in the mind of
Deerfoot.
It did not affect in the least, however, his course of action. He had
set out to befriend Ned Preston and Wildblossom Brown, and it was his
purpose to apprise Colonel Preston at Fort Bridgman of the danger to
which his block-house was exposed.
"Deerfoot!" exclaimed Ned Preston, stepping hastily toward him and
extending his hand; "I never was more glad to see you in all my life."
The handsome mouth of the Shawanoe expanded just enough to show the
white teeth between the dusky lips, and he took the hand of Ned and
pressed it warmly, immediately allowing the palm to drop from his own.
Then, without speaking, he turned toward Blossom, who, having seen how
matters stood, was scrambling rapidly forward to greet the young
warrior, whom he knew so well, and who was the most valuable companion
they could have at such a time.
Deerfoot was left-handed by birth, but he had trained himself until he
was ambidextrous, and he could draw the bow, hurl the tomahawk or
wield the scalping-knife with the right as well as with the left hand.
In no single respect, perhaps, was his mental power more clearly shown
than in the celerity with which he acquired the English language.
When several years younger he was able to hold a conversation with the
traders; and during the short time he remained with Macaiah Preston,
before "escaping" to his people again, he became so proficient that he
could readily act as interpreter.
"War dat you dat fired dat arrer at us?" demanded Wildblossom, as he
caught the hand of Deerfoot, who nodded his head, with just a shadowy
smile.
The American Indian, as a rule, does not like the African race, and he
often shows an unreasonable prejudice against him. There seemed to be
such a distaste on the part of Deerfoot, but he concealed it so well
that Blossom Brown never suspected its existence. He treated the negro
lad kindly because he belonged to the Prestons, whom the Shawanoe
loved above all others.
"I thought you war a better shot dan to miss us," added Blossom, with
the purpose of teasing their dusky friend; "your arrer neber teched me
nor Ned."
"Did it hit the buck?" asked Deerfoot, smiling a little more
decisively.
"Dat war 'cause you war so close to him."
"Deerfoot stood further away than did his white brother, who harmed
him not with his gun."
"That was because my rifle missed fire," Ned hastened to explain; "if
it was not for that, the buck would have fallen in his tracks."
"_This_ gun never misses fire," said the Shawanoe, holding up the bow
with no little pride.
"But it misses folks dat it am p'inted at," remarked Blossom, reaching
out and giving Deerfoot a nudge in the back.
"Will my brother with the face of the night, walk a long ways in the
wood and let Deerfoot send a single arrow toward him?"
There was a gleam in the dark eye of the young Shawanoe as he made
this request, and no doubt it would have proven a dangerous challenge
for Blossom to accept. The negro himself did not notice the full
significance of the question, but Ned Preston did, and he trembled
over the temerity of Blossom, who believed that Deerfoot felt as
strong friendship for him as he himself felt for the matchless young
warrior.
Unsuspicious of the slumbering storm, the African lad fortunately took
the very best course to avert it. Shaking his head with a laugh, he
said:
"Dar aint no better rifle-shots dan masser Ned dar; and I'd radder
stand up afore him a hundred yards off, and let him draw bead on me,
dan hab Deerfoot send one ob dem arrers whizzin' arter dis chile."