JACK HALLOWAY.
THE loss of Deerfoot’s horse was received more seriously by the friends
of the young Shawanoe than by himself. There were several ways of
meeting the difficulty. George Shelton proposed that the load carried by
Zigzag should be divided among the others and the animal used by the
dismounted one. The latter shook his head, and Victor suggested that he
and his brother take turns with him in riding their horses. Before that
proposition was made Mul-tal-la came forward with a similar one
affecting only him and his comrade.
The Shawanoe declined them all.
“Deerfoot will walk,” he calmly said. “He has done so many times. He
will not grow tired as soon as the horses. Let us go forward.”
To show that the question was settled he strode off across the prairie,
carrying his rifle in a trailing position and stepping with his elastic
gait, which he could maintain hour after hour without fatigue. Moreover,
it would have been no hardship for him to strike into a lope which would
have kept the animals at a trot throughout the day. You know that a man,
trained to the exercise, can walk farther than a horse, and no person
was ever better trained than the young Shawanoe.
The oppression caused by his loss showed itself for a long time. He held
his place in advance of the others, rarely speaking and often acting as
if unaware that he had companions with him. They respected his moods,
and though they chatted among themselves, said little or nothing to him.
About the middle of the afternoon the boys descried an object in the
horizon to the northeast, which at first they took to be a white cloud
heaped against the sky. But its stationary position and its peculiar
form revealed that it was a mountain peak whose summit was covered with
snow. Seen against the sky it had a soft bluish tint which made it a
most striking figure in the landscape. The clear air of these regions
makes distances deceptive, objects seeming to be much nearer the
spectator than they are. When Victor said he thought they might camp
that night at its base, the Blackfoot told him that by traveling all of
next day they would hardly be able to reach the mountain, which is one
of the loftiest of that section.
The truth of Mul-tal-la’s words was evident when, after fully four hours
of brisk walking, they camped on the bank of a small creek and saw the
sun sink behind the mountain peak, which appeared to be as far away as
ever. The plain was still treeless, and the fire kindled on the gently
sloping bank was of dry buffalo chips such as had already done them
service. Before daylight had departed the horizon was scanned with the
aid of the spyglass without discovering anything of an unusual
character.
It was the turn of the red men to act as sentinels, and Deerfoot quietly
said that he would take the first watch, calling the Blackfoot when he
thought proper. As usual, he read a chapter from his Bible. After he had
finished and the devotions of all were over, he again took out the book,
placing himself so that enough light fell upon the pages to permit him
to read. The last sight that the boys had of him was in this motionless
posture and occasionally turning a leaf. Thus he sat when the three sank
into restful slumber. The succulent grass was so abundant that the
horses, relieved of saddles, bridles and burdens, were left free to crop
as long as they chose and to sleep when the notion came to them.
A half hour after his friends had fallen asleep Deerfoot put away his
book and rose to his feet. It was profoundly still. On his right flowed
the slightly muddy stream, no more than fifty feet wide and of shallow
depth. In other directions stretched the slightly rolling prairie until
lost in the gloom. The moon was near the full, but its light was
treacherous and uncertain because of the masses of clouds that slowly
drifted across its face. At times one could see quite clearly for a
hundred yards or more, and then the shadows crept up to the camp, whose
fire threw out comparatively little light. Now and then the watchful
sentinel was able to detect the dim outlines of the farther shore, even
when the surface of the stream did not reflect the mild glow of the
fire.
Nothing escaped his vigilant eye. It was not yet midnight when Bug, the
horse of Mul-tal-la, showed a strange restlessness. He whinnied softly
two or three times, and finally came to his feet. Deerfoot moved
silently to his side, patted his neck and spoke soothingly. The animal
showed no alarm, but rather curiosity. His nose was pointed to the
south, where he seemed to scent something unusual.
The Shawanoe waited till the moon emerged from the clouds and then
peered in that direction. He could detect nothing out of the common. He
walked a little way and again waited for the moon’s face to become
unveiled. Still all looked the same as before. He went back to Bug and
found him in the former position, with ears pricked forward, nose thrust
slightly out and breathing more rapidly than was his wont. The other
horses gave no sign of disturbance.
The Shawanoe was puzzled. He felt that if this dumb brute was able to
detect the approach of danger he ought to do the same. Kneeling, he
pressed one ear against the damp ground.
As he did so he was sensible of a faint rhythmic, velvet-like tremor,
which was inaudible when he raised his head. Using the earth again as a
medium, he listened and brought all his faculties into play. The
singular pulsation neither increased nor diminished. The best comparison
he could make was to that of the multitudinous tramping of thousands of
tiny feet upon the earth miles away, recalling the gradual subsidence of
the racket created by the stamping of the bison. Deerfoot knew it was
not produced by those animals. It could not have been elk or deer, for
they never herded in such vast numbers, nor could it have been made by
wolves, since their tread was too soft for the sound to penetrate far.
The Shawanoe was mystified. Rising to his feet again he stood gazing
southward, wondering what strange thing was to come out of the
flickering moonlight. But none appeared, and hearing a movement of Bug,
he turned and saw him disposing himself for the night. He lay down on
the grassy earth, prepared to continue the rest which had been broken so
curiously. [Illustration: “‘Helloa!’”]
This looked as if the uneasiness of the horse was over. A few minutes
later Deerfoot again placed his ear against the ground. Immediately he
was aware that that faint, tremulous throbbing which had so mystified
him was passing away. Whatever had caused it was receding, and soon the
silence became as profound as before. He was still at a loss to
understand its nature, though he thought it was produced by animals
treading the earth in immense numbers.
Walking back to camp, he noted the three unconscious forms wrapped in
their blankets, for there was enough sharpness in the air to make the
warmth pleasant and little heat was given out by the fire. The Shawanoe
paused just far enough away to be revealed dimly in the subdued glow,
and was leaning on his rifle, listening, looking and meditating, when
the stillness was broken by a single exclamation:
“_Helloa!_”
It was the voice of a white man on the other side of the stream which
ran close to the camp. The face of the moon happened to be clear at that
moment, and glancing across, Deerfoot saw a shadowy figure standing on
the edge of the water. The head and front of a horse showed at his side,
and he was evidently studying the camp upon which he had come.
Deerfoot straightened up and promptly called back:
“Helloa! Come over and see us.”
As he spoke he walked down to the edge of the stream, as if to meet the
stranger, who in a cheery voice replied:
“That suits me. I was thinkin’ of doin’ that same thing,”
He was seen to swing himself upon the back of his horse, whose ribs he
kicked with his heels and ordered forward. The animal stepped with some
hesitation into the water, snuffing and feeling his way. He had advanced
only two or three paces when Deerfoot observed that he was followed by
two other horses, each of which carried a large pack on his back. The
distance was short, but it took some time for the three animals to ford
the stream, which was no more than two or three feet deep, with a bottom
of soft mud.
The moment the leader touched dry land the man slipped from the saddle
and extended his hand.
“Why, you’re an Injin!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t think that, but I’m
powerful glad to see you.”
“And Deerfoot is glad to see his brother,” replied the smiling Shawanoe,
returning the pressure of the other.
“Who are you?” asked the white man, peering closely into the countenance
as dimly seen in the firelight.
“Deerfoot, and a Shawanoe by birth.”
“Shawanoe,” repeated the white man. “I don’t remember havin’ heerd tell
of them varmints—that is of that _tribe_,” he corrected with a laugh;
“no offence.”
“Their home is a good many miles from here, in Ohio.”
“Ah! that explains it. I’ve seed worse lookin’ redskins than you.”
“And plenty better ones,” said Deerfoot rather taken with the off-hand
manner of the newcomer.
“Dunno ’bout that. There are a few good ones among the redskins and some
powerful mean ones. I’m suited with you so fur, from the ground up.”
The visitor was of massive frame, fully six feet high, broad in
proportion, with a grizzly beard that covered his face to the eyes and
flowed over his breast. He was dressed like a half-civilized Indian,
wearing a fur cap, thick shoes instead of moccasins, and with a heavy,
loose coat flung over his deerskin hunting shirt. He had a strong,
well-formed nose and bright gray eyes, which peered keenly from under
his shaggy brows. His voice was deep, and with a genial musical tone
which was pleasing and fitted well his frank manner. He shifted his long
rifle to his left hand when he extended the other to the Shawanoe and
scanned him with a sharpness evidently acquired by his long experience
on the prairies and in the mountains.
“Deerfoot is glad to meet his brother. He hopes he will stay for the
rest of the night with him and his friends.”
“Who mought they be?” asked the man, looking around at the three forms
wrapped in blankets near the fire. The boys were sleeping quietly, and
even the Blackfoot did not seem to have been disturbed by the rather
boisterous greeting of the visitor.
“Afore you tell me about ’em, I guess I may as well unship my rudder,”
added the latter, who proceeded deliberately to remove the loads from
the other two horses and place them on the ground. Then each was freed
from his belongings and given a resounding slap in turn:
“Off with you and none of your tricks. If I haven’t cured you of tryin’
to sneak off I’ll cure you in the mornin’, and don’t you forget it.”
His own horse kicked up his heels, flirted his head and led the way, the
others soberly following out into the gloom till they came to the place
where the animals of our friends were reposing. There was some neighing,
meant for greetings, and then no further attention was given by them to
one another.
Deerfoot flung some chips on the blaze and sat down, inviting his
visitor by a gesture to do the same. He assumed a lolling posture and
produced a short black clay pipe. Crumbling some plug tobacco in the
palm of his hand, he poked it into the bowl with his forefinger and lit
it from the fire.
“My name is Jack Halloway,” he said, after several puffs. “I’ve spent
the winter in the mountains, trapping beaver and foxes and sich, and am
on my way to St. Louis with a good load of peltries. I’ve had better
luck than usual and am later in gettin’ back than is gin’rally the case,
but it paid to wait, though I did have some trouble with the Snake
Injins. Howsumever, you said you was goin’ to tell me ’bout your friends
that seem to be sleepin’ powerful heavy like.”
Deerfoot had decided that no harm could come from telling this man the
truth about himself and his companions, and he now did so. The Indian
belonged to the Blackfoot tribe, and had been on a visit a long way to
the east. Deerfoot had agreed to accompany him on his return home, but
hoped to be with his own friends again the following year. Then he told
of the twin boys, sons of a friend of his. One was going into a decline
because of grief over the loss of his parent, and it was agreed that the
only cure was through diverting his thoughts and energies by this long
and hard journey. That no mistake had been made was proved long before,
for the lad had gained so rapidly in strength and spirits that he was
his former self again and physically the equal of his brother in every
respect.
Jack Halloway listened with close interest, for the story was
remarkable. He sagely remarked, however, that if the boys had been so
greatly benefited the wisest thing to do was for the three to turn back
and allow the Blackfoot to finish his journey alone.
“I jedge from what I’ve heerd that you’re a powerful cute Injin and know
that, though you’re a good many miles from St. Louis, you ain’t half way
to the Pacific yit. I’ve never been there myself, but I know ’nough of
the mountains and Injins to know that the job is the biggest thing in
all creation. Depend upon it, Shawanoe, _you’ll never get home onless
you turn back now_!”
This was said with great earnestness, the trapper nodding his head and
slapping his knee with his palm.
“The words of my brother are wise, but it would sadden the hearts of my
brothers if we went home, and he who was ill would become ill again and
die.”
“See here, younker, own up now; it’s _you_ who’d feel the worst.”
And to help make his meaning clear, Jack Halloway leaned over and thrust
his thumb into the ribs of Deerfoot and chuckled. The Shawanoe could not
help smiling.
“Deerfoot can never be happy till he looks upon the face of the great
water that lies far toward the setting sun. He must go on.”
“Wal, you’re boss of the job, as I can see from what you say, but I want
to tell you one thing that you don’t know.”
“There are many things that Deerfoot doesn’t know.”
The trapper glanced around, as if afraid of being overheard, and then
lowered his voice almost to a whisper as he leaned toward him:
“The varmints in the mountains that you’ve got to git through are
gettin’ more cantankerous than ever. I’ve trapped and hunted among ’em
for nigh onto twenty year, and never had as much trouble as last winter.
I’ve been told by the boys that come down the Missouri in the spring
that there’s just as good huntin’ and trappin’ up that way, and the
varmints don’t bother ’em half as much as out here; so I’ve made up my
mind to strike out for that part of the world next fall when I go for
the beaver runs agin.”
Jack Halloway was not slow to see that his warnings were thrown away on
the young Shawanoe, and was discreet enough to take another line. He
puffed his lips for some minutes, continually glancing at Deerfoot, who
tried to act as if unconscious of this scrutiny, which at times became
embarrassing. Suddenly the trapper started like a man who had forgotten
something.
“That’s powerful qu’ar,” he said, “and I beg your pardon.”
While speaking he was groping hurriedly through an interior pocket of
his coat, and now brought forth a flask and twisted the cork from it.
“I allers take a keg of it into the mountains, for there’s no thin’ like
it when you find the weather a bit too cold, and it’s just as good when
it’s too hot or you’ve got the blue devils and don’t feel right. After
you.”
And he leaned over and reached the flask to Deerfoot.
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