WHIRLWIND.
DEERFOOT waited till sure of the exhaustion of the stallion. Then while
he was still galloping in his tired way, he slipped from his back and,
dropping to the ground, began running beside him.
The instant the horse felt himself free of his master he dashed off at
the highest bent of his speed, as if determined to be rid of the dreaded
one at whatever cost. You know what a wonderful runner the young
Shawanoe was, and he now put forth every ounce of energy at his command.
The sight was thrilling. The incomparable youth was making a race with
the black stallion, and the exhibition was marvelous. Ah, if you could
have been there with a camera to take a snapshot of the struggle!
Now, no man ever lived who could outrun a blooded or trained horse. It
would be absurd for me to pretend that the Shawanoe youth, with all his
marvelous fleetness, could outspeed a wild animal like the black
stallion. It would have been idiotic for him to attempt it, unless his
rival was so handicapped that a marked advantage rested with the biped.
I have shown that Deerfoot possessed that advantage in the fatigue of
the steed. Moreover, as I have made clear in another story concerning
the young Shawanoe, he was able to keep up the exertion longer than a
horse, and had proved it by running one down when each started fresh.
He had no fear, therefore, when he dropped off the animal’s back, nor
did he feel any misgiving because, in the first minute or two, the
stallion slightly drew away from him. The youth knew he could run him
down, and he meant to do it.
The horse gained until he was fifty feet in advance. The consciousness
of his advantage nerved him to the utmost. With head aloft and the sweat
showing in foam where the limbs rubbed the body, he kept an eye on the
fearful thing he seemed to have shaken off. There he was, a short
distance to the rear, and a little to one side. The form slowly receded,
but while the horse was doing his best it began to close the gap between
them. The brute saw it drawing steadily nearer, with the resistless
certainty of fate. The Shawanoe’s feet doubled under him so rapidly that
the eye would have found it hard to see the twinkling moccasins. He was
doing his very best, and you have been able to form some idea of what
_that_ was. Not the least remarkable feature of all was that Deerfoot
did not seem to be affected in the least by his terrific exertions. He
breathed no faster than when walking, and was capable of keeping up the
tremendous run for a time that, were it named, would sound incredible.
Near and nearer drew the dreaded figure, and the stallion, if capable of
such an emotion, must have felt the chill of despair creeping through
his frame. But it was useless to fight against fate, and he put forth no
further effort, even when the pursuer drew up alongside, and, repeating
his remarkable bound, once more dropped astride the perspiring body.
Deerfoot now changed his treatment of the exhausted stallion. Instead of
speaking sharply and beating his heels against his sides, he patted his
neck, rubbed a palm gently down its side and uttered soothing
expressions. It was hardly to be expected that the brute would
understand this, for it was all new and strange to him, but the fiercest
wild animal instinctively knows the difference between brutality and
kindness. Something within the horse responded to these advances, and by
and by he dropped to a walk and made no effort to unseat or harm his
rider.
Deerfoot’s wish was to return to his friends, for they must have been
left many miles to the rear, and, though they were quite likely to
follow him, they must still be separated from him by a long distance. He
therefore tried to turn the stallion the other way. This proved harder
than he anticipated. He first drew the nose around, but the animal kept
going straight on as before, even with his head awry. Then the youth
slipped to the ground, placed himself in front of his charge, and flung
up his arms. The stallion stopped, made a motion as if to bite him, and
then, frightened by his own temerity, paused. Still he refused to change
his course.
The Shawanoe was working patiently when the horse turned to one side,
pricked up his ears and started off at a trot. The youth suspected the
meaning of this action: the brute had scented water, of which he must
have felt the need, and was hurrying to it. Instead of remounting
Deerfoot ran ahead of the animal, and glancing over his shoulder to make
sure he was followed, broke into a lope which he accommodated to the
speed of his pursuer.
The youth was right in his supposition. Not far in advance, in a slight
depression of the prairie, he caught the gleam of water, marking where a
small tributary of the North Fork flowed from the mountainous regions on
the west. Increasing his speed, the Shawanoe reached the water first,
and, stooping down, drank his fill of the clear current, which still
retained much of the coolness of the elevated regions whence it came.
The stallion broke into a faster gait as he drew near, and pushed his
nose into the stream beside the youth and drank his fill. It was odd,
when he had finished, to see him raise his head, with the current
dripping from his frothy mouth, and look earnestly at the youth. Had he
been gifted with the power of speech he probably would have said:
“I have come across many queer creatures while roving the plains, but
you are the queerest of them all. You don’t look as if you would stand
any show in a fight with me. I’ve beaten many rivals and am ready to
beat more, but you’re too much for me. I take off my hat to you, and now
what do you intend to do with me? If I get the chance to lay you out,
_I’ll do it_, but I’m afraid I won’t get the chance.”
The Shawanoe was on the alert, suspecting the stallion would try some
trick after refreshing himself with water. In turning away from the
stream, the head of the steed happened to point eastward, the direction
in which Deerfoot wished to go. He again vaulted upon his back and the
brute continued on that course.
What the rider feared was that the stallion would set out to find the
drove that had deserted him. This could not be permitted, for it would
ruin the plan the Shawanoe had in mind. He expected to have another
battle with his prize, and held himself alert for it, but he was pleased
and surprised by the docility of his captive. This may have been partly
due to his exhaustion, or who shall say that the brute did not wish for
time in which to formulate some scheme for overthrowing the being that
had outwitted him!
Deerfoot kept up his caresses and gentle treatment of the prisoner. He
strove to familiarize him with his voice and to win his confidence. He
had proved he was master of the terrible brute, and the task was now to
convince the brute that he was his friend. This was sure to be hard, and
he could not hope to succeed for awhile to come.
They had traveled a few miles when once more Deerfoot slipped to the
ground. As he landed he walked close to the shoulder of the horse and
patted and addressed him as he would a child whom he loved. The stallion
at first resented the familiarity. He shook his head as if displeased,
edged away and finally snapped at the youth. The Shawanoe knew it would
not do to let the animal forget who was master. So, when the black
muzzle and gleaming teeth showed, he slapped his nose and spoke
brusquely to him. This was followed by more caresses and soothing
expressions. By and by the horse ceased showing resentment. Then
Deerfoot remounted as before.
Thus the strange acquaintanceship progressed. It was impossible for the
wild stallion to become tamed in a few hours, though we have professors
in these times who conquer the most vicious beasts in less than a single
hour, but sometimes the horses do not stay conquered. It can be said
that the youth and horse became quite intimate as they journeyed
together, and the youth had good reason to believe that ere long they
would become friends.
As he had supposed, Mul-tal-la and the boys did not remain idle after
the Shawanoe’s hurricane departure. Hardly had he vanished in the
horizon when the three set out to follow him, pressing their animals
hard. While it cannot be said that they were free from anxiety for their
friend, they were not much alarmed. There could be no after-contest that
would be fiercer than that which had taken place under their very eyes,
and they had come to ask one another whether there was any situation in
which the young Shawanoe would not be well able to take care of himself.
At every few paces George Shelton brought his glass into use and scanned
the prairie in advance, not forgetting to bestow a glance now and then
in other directions, for there was no saying what whim would control the
black stallion.
“I see them!” suddenly called George. “They are coming this way!”
“Is Deerfoot on the horse?”
“Of course; you don’t suppose he would walk, do you?”
“I didn’t know but that the stallion was so tired Deerfoot would have to
carry him,” was the innocent answer. “Let me have a squint.”
Victor and Mul-tal-la each descried the animal, but since he was in a
direct line and held his head high it was some minutes before they could
make sure that the Shawanoe was on his back. It was the Blackfoot who
announced that he was riding the captured horse at a walk.
But Deerfoot had descried his friends before this, and he now showed his
mastery over the animal by forcing him to a moderate gallop, which was
kept up till the two parties had come within a few rods of each other.
Then the stallion stopped and showed renewed excitement. It was due to
the nearness of the other horses, whom he did not like, and he repelled
a closer acquaintance.
Three of the animals were indifferent and displayed no curiosity, but
Zigzag seemed to think he was excepted from the disfavor of the captive.
He pointed his nose toward him, whinnied, and then advanced rapidly.
Mul-tal-la was about to interfere when Deerfoot called to him not to do
so.
The Shawanoe did all he could to quiet his horse, but with the light of
mischief in his eyes watched the meeting between the two brutes. Zigzag
came right on, with nose thrust out, as if he intended to kiss the
other, who grew more and more displeased. Suddenly the stallion whirled
around—his rider not trying to restrain him—and let fly with both heels,
which, had they landed fairly, would have injured Zigzag, but a portion
of the bulging pack interposed. Zigzag was sent backward for several
steps, and so shaken that he was disgusted. The snubbing was too direct
to be misunderstood, and he sullenly wheeled and rejoined his own
friends, quite content to leave the aristocratic interloper to himself.
All four laughed, for there was a humanness about the whole thing that
was amusing. The boys and the Blackfoot were delighted, while the
expression of Deerfoot left no doubt of his pleasure over the prize he
had gained. Many a wild horse had been brought to earth by the skilfully
thrown lasso or riata, hobbled and mastered by the horseman who had his
own animal to give him aid, but whoever knew of such a thing being done
by a single person without help in any form whatever! And yet you have
been shown that that was precisely what was done by Deerfoot the
Shawanoe.
Mul-tal-la quite overwhelmed his youthful friend with praise. Addressing
him in the tongue of the Blackfeet—for he did not wish the boys to
understand his earnest words—he declared that the feat was one that no
other living man could perform. There were fine horsemen among the
different tribes, and Mul-tal-la had witnessed many of their exhibitions
of skill, but there was none to be compared with Deerfoot. The dusky
fellow was specially ardent in praising the deftness, power and
quickness with which the Shawanoe had thrown the wild stallion without
bridle or saddle or aid of any kind.
“See the fellow blush!” said the grinning Victor to his brother. “That
shows that Mul-tal-la is praising Deerfoot. I never saw an Indian blush,
for it’s too much like a negro trying to do it, but Deerfoot can’t help
showing his confusion.”
“There,” added George, watching the countenance of their friend, “he has
told Mul-tal-la to stop, and he daren’t refuse. If I had half the
smartness of Deerfoot I should expect to sit down and hear everybody
praise me. They couldn’t help it.”
“I don’t know about that. _I_ don’t wait for folks to praise _me_.”
“Because you would grow gray before they did it. Hark!”
Sitting astride of the motionless stallion their friend called:
“Will my brothers give Deerfoot a name for his horse?”
“Yes,” George hastened to answer; “call him Dewdrop.”
The Shawanoe shook his head. The inappropriateness of the name was
apparent, even to the Blackfoot. Indeed, the proposer was in jest.
“I have it,” said Victor. “Make it Whirlwind.”
“My brother speaks with the words of wisdom,” replied the Shawanoe. “His
name shall be Whirlwind, though it would not be bad if it were
Thunderbolt, like the steed that was conquered many moons ago.”
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