A BATTLE ROYAL.
THE camp was astir early. George and Victor Shelton were surprised when
told by Deerfoot of the visit received the night previous. A trapper had
called upon him with three horses, conversed for an hour or more, and
then departed, and was now miles away on the road to St. Louis. The
Shawanoe related nothing of what passed between him and Jack Halloway
except to say that he was belated in leaving the beaver runs in the
mountains and meant to lose no time in reaching his distant home.
The towering peak, crested with snow, showed to the westward, but
apparently it was little nearer than when first descried in relief
against the blue sky. Mul-tal-la said that instead of keeping on to the
peak and the range, which was quite extensive, they would now swerve to
the northward and make more directly for the Blackfoot country. The
headwaters of the North Fork of the Platte were among these elevations,
and the journey would become easier through flanking them, as he and his
companion had done when coming eastward. The range, however, trended to
the northeast, and they would have to cross it in order to reach the
sources of the numerous branches of the Yellowstone and Missouri. Then
the course would bend to the northwest, parallel to the great Rocky
Mountain range, but always east of it. Remember that the names of rivers
and mountains which I use were wholly unknown to our friends, who had to
rely for their general knowledge upon the information given by the
observant Blackfoot.
The morning meal finished, and animals having been saddled and the packs
replaced, Deerfoot, declining all offers to ride, asked George Shelton
to loan him his spyglass for a few minutes. He pointed the instrument to
the south, and stood for some time closely studying the horizon, for the
sky was bright, and in the clear air his vision, thus aided, reached for
a long distance.
It was apparent to his friends that he had discovered something of
interest. They peered in the same direction, but without seeing anything
except the monotonous undulations of the grassy plain. Not a tree, not a
mountain, nor any prominent object was in sight.
Still it was evident that the Shawanoe was interested. Finally he handed
the glass to George, who was in the saddle on the back of Jack.
“Let my brother tell me what he sees,” he quietly remarked.
The boy leveled the instrument and a moment later exclaimed:
“Horses! There are ten hundred thousand of them!”
“Deerfoot fears his brother has not counted right,” remarked the
Shawanoe.
“I may be two or three out of the way,” replied the lad, “but I never
before saw so many.”
He passed the glass to the impatient Victor, who took his turn at
scanning the remarkable scene. Mul-tal-la sat as immobile as a statue on
his horse, calmly waiting for the others to complete their scrutiny. His
eyes were turned to the south, and the slight wrinkling of his cheeks
showed that he was looking hard, though there was no other evidence of
concern. Victor added his expressions of astonishment to those of his
brother, and handed the instrument to the Blackfoot, who, of course, had
learned its use long before. Thus the round of observation was finished.
That George had been extravagant in his estimate became clear when it
was agreed that the drove of wild horses numbered perhaps two or three
hundred. They were coming at an easy canter in a direct line for the
camp, so that in a short time all were in plain sight of the unaided
eye. No doubt they had wandered northward from the plains of Upper
Texas—as it is now called—tempted by the fine pasturage, and possibly by
that longing for change which sometimes shows itself in a quadruped to a
hardly less degree than in a biped.
The picturesque scene did not make our friends lose sight of their own
situation as regarded these wild animals. If they chose they could
overrun the camp and trample all to death as the stampeded bison
threatened to do but a short time before. Would they do so?
Mul-tal-la, whose previous experience gave him greater knowledge, did
not think he and his companions were in special danger. Wild horses were
not disposed to attack travelers, though there was a possibility of
their doing so if provoked or if strangers got in their path or annoyed
them. He warned his friends to watch against their own horses dashing
out and joining the drove, though even if they did so they were liable
to harm by the others, who were likely to resent such an intrusion.
The domestic horses were only a few minutes behind their owners in
discovering the strangers’ approach. They showed considerable
excitement, throwing up their heads, snuffing the air and staring
affrightedly to the south. Only one, however, betrayed a disposition to
make closer acquaintance with his wild brethren. It was Zigzag, who
broke into a sudden awkward gallop, heading directly for them.
But he had time to go only a few paces when Deerfoot leaped in front of
him, seized the rope halter and whirled him around with no gentle force.
The horse persisted, but the youth spoke sharply, slapped the side of
his head, and Mul-tal-la, who was the only one of the company that had
provided himself with a switch, brought it down about the head and neck
of the stubborn creature with a vicious vigor that quickly subdued him.
Zigzag would have cut a fine figure in bouncing about among the wild
animals with his huge pack on his back. Meanwhile a close watch was kept
on the others, who could not fail to be impressed by the object lesson
that had just been given them.
The drove maintained their easy swinging gallop until within two or
three hundred yards. They had acted as if unaware of the little group
drawn up on the prairie and scrutinizing them. Then the canter dropped
to a trot, and then to a walk, the varying movements when these changes
took place adding to the novelty of the picture. Among the horses were
piebalds, roans, grays, sorrels and several of a milk-white color. The
undulating bodies, with their different tints, were like the changing
figures of the biograph.
Deerfoot explained to the boys that nothing was to be done unless the
wild creatures continued to advance and showed a purpose to attack. At
the proper moment he would give the word and they would fire into them,
relying upon bringing down a number and stampeding the herd. Each of the
party sat or stood, rifle in hand, awaiting the order from their leader,
and closely watching every action of the wild horses, ready to let fly
the instant it became necessary.
All at once, as if in obedience to a word of command, the herd paused,
threw up their heads and stared at the small group. Several whinnied and
showed excitement, for the sight must have been wholly new, and if they
were not alarmed they were mystified.
Bug, Jack and Prince behaved better than was expected. They were in a
tremor and plainly frightened, but remained under control. Zigzag seemed
to be meditating some _coup_, but Deerfoot stood within a pace of his
head, and was prepared to check anything of that nature. The animal had
enough sense not to invite any more punishment, and remained still.
But previous to this, all had noticed the most striking feature of the
exhibition. The drove was under the lead of a stallion that was the most
superb steed upon which any of the travelers had ever looked. He was of
large size, of a glossy coal-black color, and had a long flowing mane
and a tail that reached almost to the ground. With head erect and every
limb and movement the picture of beauty, grace and strength, he was
impressively perfect. The sight was one to hold a spectator spellbound
with admiration. Even Deerfoot forgot for a moment the situation of
himself and companions in his wonder at the picture before him.
Perhaps you know that the roving bands of wild horses are generally
under the leadership of a stallion who has attained the honor by beating
off all rivals, and who retains his supreme power until, as his years
increase and his prowess declines, some younger aspirant dethrones him
and takes his place as king. As commander-in-chief of his equine army,
the stallion must be of unflinching courage and game to the death. No
band of wolves, no matter how numerous, dare attack the compact body
under his leadership, nor indeed need the horses fear any marauder of
the plains, for with such an example of knightly dauntlessness ever
before them, their heels and teeth are impregnable.
Like obedient soldiers, the members of the herd stood motionless, with
heads raised, snuffing the air and gazing at the strange creatures,
three of whom were astride of members of their own species, and one
afoot; and, like an officer who will not permit a subaltern or private
to assume a risk that he fears to take himself, the stallion of midnight
blackness now advanced, as if to call the strangers to account.
He came forward at a measured deliberate walk, head high in air, tail
sweeping near the ground, mane falling low, with his silken ears thrust
forward, eyes glowing, and indulging in a peculiar flirting of his nose,
as if he sought thereby to sharpen his perceptions. The mouth was partly
open, and it was clear that he did not feel quite at ease in thus
approaching the strange group. But the eyes of his subjects were upon
him, and he would die before faltering in the face of an enemy. So he
came on, with a step that was the more impressive because it was so
slow, so deliberate and yet so unhesitating.
While Mul-tal-la, George and Victor Shelton were studying him with
absorbing intentness, Deerfoot, the Shawanoe, became an actor in the
extraordinary drama.
His position was slightly in advance of his friends. He now handed his
rifle to Mul-tal-la and coolly walked forward toward the stallion. His
arms were hanging at his side, and his step was timed to that of the
horse, so that it was as if both were marching to the tap of the same
drum. His action centered the eyes of all the animals of both parties as
well as those of his friends upon him.
When this singular performance began less than fifty paces separated the
Shawanoe and the equine chief. The approach continued until half the
interval was passed, when the stallion paused. Evidently he was not
clear as to the meaning of the youth’s conduct. The latter slowed his
pace, but did not stop. The horse raised his head higher, flirted his
nose, flinging a speck of foam over his black breast. Probably, had the
two been alone, he would have retreated, for there was something uncanny
in the advance of the Shawanoe, but he remembered that the eyes of his
own soldiers were upon him, and he could not show the white feather.
Possibly, too, he understood that his enemy, as he regarded him, was
without any formidable weapon with which to defend himself. The next
action of the brute gave reasonableness to this theory, for, after his
brief pause, he resumed his approach at a brisker step than before.
Deerfoot now stood still and awaited his coming, his arms still at his
side, but with all his muscles, nerves and senses strung to the highest
tension. The stallion meant to fight him, and the youth was waiting for
the battle to open.
Mul-tal-la hardly breathed, so intense was his interest, but he held his
bow and arrow ready to launch the missile if it should become necessary
to save his friend. The brothers would have shot the stallion without
further delay had they dared to do so, but they could only imitate the
Blackfoot—hold themselves ready to interfere at the critical moment.
They could not run the risk of offending their friend by interposing
until the necessity arose. [Illustration: A Battle Royal.]
The black steed advanced with a more confident step, and Deerfoot stood
as if he were a figure carved in stone. Then, when they were within a
step or two, the stallion thrust forward his head, and his white teeth
were seen to gleam as he made a vicious snap at the face of the youth.
The latter recoiled just enough to escape the bite, and with the flat of
his hand smote the side of the nose with a vigor that must have given a
sharp tingle to the horse. With a neigh of rage he instantly reared and
savagely pawed the air with his front hoofs. He struck at the Shawanoe,
who leaped slightly back to avoid the feet, which, had they landed,
would have cloven his skull in twain. Then he ran swiftly for a few
paces and with a single bound rose like a bird in air and dropped
astride of the satin back.
“Now throw Deerfoot if you can!” he shouted. Then he called to his dazed
friends:
“Leave us alone!”
Who can imagine the rage of the stallion when he found that a man was on
his back? It took him a few seconds to understand the mortal insult, and
then his fury burst forth like the fires of a volcano. In his wild
delirium he emitted a shrieking cry, such as his species sometimes utter
when in the extremity of terror, and began rearing and plunging in the
very desperation of frenzy. “Bucking,” as displayed by the bronchos of
the West in these times, was an unknown science to him, but he seemed
one moment to be standing on his fore feet with his flying heels kicking
vertically upward, and then, reversing in a flash, became upright like a
man. Next he spun around as if he were a top, first to the right and
then to the left, up-ended again, alternating with an abruptness that
would have made an ordinary spectator dizzy.
Deerfoot held his seat as if he were a part of the brute himself. The
luxuriant mane gave him a firm support. Sometimes he lay flat on the
back of the steed, when he appeared to be trying to stand on his head,
and the next moment was extended on his face and gripping the forelock.
Then he was over the shoulders, and, in the same moment, astride of his
haunches, but never once did he yield his seat.
While this battle royal was raging the other wild horses did a cowardly
thing. Frightened by the struggle, whose nature they could not
understand, they broke into a panic and dashed headlong to the
southward. Had they possessed a tithe of the courage of their leader and
gone forward to his aid, Deerfoot would have been doomed, but they
basely deserted him in his extremity. What matter if they lost their
despot? There were plenty of rivals to take his place. “The king is
dead—long live the king!”
Again the stallion’s head went up in air. The right hand of Deerfoot
gripped the forelock, and he seemed to hang suspended, so nearly
perpendicular was the position of the two. In the delicate poise the
slightest impulse was enough to throw the center of gravity outside the
base. The Shawanoe gave that impulse by swinging his feet and body
backward while supported by the forelock.
Over went the stallion squarely on his back with a thump that shook the
ground. The shock was a severe one and by no means pleasant, nor was it
what the brute had figured upon. He pawed the air, kicked and quickly
struggled to his feet. The moment he came up Deerfoot, who had easily
eluded the danger, sprang upon his back again.
Although he could not have forgotten his overthrow, the stallion reared
once more, taking care not to rise as high as before. Standing thus
nearly erect, his fore hoofs beating the air, the rider holding himself
in place by twisting the fingers of his right hand in the forelock,
Deerfoot leaned forward alongside the neck of the brute, and, reaching
down with his left hand, seized the ankle of the stallion just below the
fetlock, where he could almost span the limb.
The grip was like that of Damascus steel, and when the Shawanoe drew
upward and held the hoof against the body of the horse, almost touching
the upper part of the leg, because of the abruptness of the bend at the
knee, it was as if the foot was imprisoned in a vise. The stallion, in
his blind struggles, went forward on one shoulder and rolled over.
Deerfoot was off again, and, letting the scared brute clamber to his
feet, vaulted upon his back as before.
By this time the stallion was panic-smitten. Sweat was beginning to
show, and his satin coat gleamed with new luster. Finding himself once
more on his feet, he uttered another wild whinny and burst away over the
prairie like a thunderbolt. It is not likely that he recalled the drove
of which he was leader. If he did, he must have been angered by their
base desertion of him, for he headed straight westward, and, when last
seen by our friends, was running at his highest bent toward the
snow-clad mountain, with the Shawanoe firmly seated on his back. George
Shelton kept the glass to his eye till the two became a flickering speck
in the distance and then vanished.
Deerfoot was well satisfied with the way things had gone and were still
going. He had “cut out” the stallion from his herd, had mastered him in
the furious fight, and, to complete the conquest, it was necessary still
further to subdue him; that could be done only by allowing or compelling
the brute to exhaust himself. The fight recalled his conquest years
before of Thunderbolt, also a black stallion, on the other side of the
Mississippi.
The heart of the Shawanoe glowed with admiration and pride in the
magnificent creature whom he had resolved to capture and subdue. Never
had he bestrode so matchless a steed, nor one with a more beautiful
stride, as he flew westward like the wind. Could he be made a prize he
would be worth a prince’s ransom.
Deerfoot therefore complacently waited for the stallion to tire himself
out. It looked as if he would never do so, but there is a limit to the
capacity of every animal. Mile after mile was swept under those rhythmic
hoofs with no apparent slackening, but by and by the watchful youth
noted a lagging of the gait. The pace was beginning to tell. Waiting
until the slowing became more marked, Deerfoot struck his heels against
the ribs, slapped the sweaty neck and emitted a series of striking
war-whoops.
The stallion was off again as if fired from the throat of a columbiad,
and maintained the pace for fifteen or twenty minutes, when he began
falling away. The rider kicked, slapped and shouted, and the horse
responded with another burst, which made the air whistle in a gale past
the ears of the rider. The brute was reeking with sweat, but he
struggled gallantly. He had flung many miles behind him and was good for
many more.
The alternating slackening and bursts of speed were kept up till finally
the sorely pressed animal was unable to respond. After several brave but
useless efforts he ceased the attempt. He had done his best and could do
no more.
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