A QUESTION OF SKILL AND COURAGE.
THE situation had taken on a most singular phase. The Shelton brothers
were waiting on the crest of the ridge for the return of their Blackfoot
friend, when in a brief time they were called upon to enter into a brief
struggle with two Shoshone or Snake Indians for the possession of their
own property.
Withal, the paleface youths were eager for the contest. This was
especially true of Victor, who, as he expressed it, was aching for a
set-to with the broad, strongly built youth, toward whom he had taken an
intense dislike from the first.
The arrangements were made by the chief Black Elk and Mul-tal-la, the
two warriors standing as immobile as if hundreds of miles removed from
the spot, though it is not to be supposed they were not interested.
Their leader and the Blackfoot talked again for two or three minutes,
while George and Victor stood side by side, awaiting the test. The rifle
of one was still held by a Shoshone, while Victor clung to his own
weapon.
“I don’t give it up till I have to,” grimly remarked the lad. “One of
them has yours, and Mul-tal-la shall take charge of mine; he’ll act
fair, but I don’t believe any of the others will. George, if you don’t
throw that copper-colored scamp you’re no brother of mine, and you’ll
have to settle with _me_.”
“I’ll do my best—I promise you that. Don’t forget that _you_ have a
tough job before you.”
Mul-tal-la addressed the brothers:
“My brother George will wrestle with Antelope first; then my brother
Victor will see whether Young Elk is stronger than he.”
“How many falls are we to have?” asked George.
“Only one. If he lays you on your back you must give up your gun to the
Antelope. You will not have another chance, but will have to go without
a rifle till you can get one somewhere else.”
“In all the wrestling matches I ever saw it was the best two out of
three falls. The fellow may play some trick on me.”
“You mustn’t let him,” said Victor, impatiently; “you know as many
tricks as he. Remember I’ve got my eye on you, and if he beats you,
you’ll have to take a turn with me.”
“Save your strength for yourself,” replied George. “Well, I’m ready,” he
added, addressing his dusky friend.
The spectators formed a sort of ring, and the youths advanced to the
middle, each warily watching the other and on the alert for the first
advantage.
The wrestling bouts of the early days were not conducted as in these
times. The rule was for the contestants to take their places with their
sides touching, and each with his arm around the waist or neck of the
other. The same style still prevails in many places remote from towns.
When thus interlocked the contestants began the struggle, twisting,
bending, straining and tugging with might and main and with all the
skill the two could bring to their aid. The spectacle of wrestlers
standing face to face and using their toes to feint and tap each other,
most of the motions being simultaneous, like two fighting chickens,
while watching a chance to catch the other unawares, was formerly
unknown in this country.
It will be noted that in the old style, provided both were right or
left-handed, one of the wrestlers had a manifest advantage, since his
stronger side was turned toward the weaker side of the other. Among boys
this advantage was often decided by lot, or by the first shout of his
claim by one of the contestants. The handicap served also to even
matters when there was a marked superiority of strength or skill on the
part of one youth.
George Shelton was right-handed, like most boys, and he determined not
to yield that point to the other. It speedily developed, however, that
the Antelope was left-handed, for he voluntarily placed his left arm
over the shoulders of George—something he would not have done had his
right side been the stronger.
Instead of placing his arm under that of his foe, George Shelton slipped
it on top, though not much was gained thereby. He made up his mind that
if there was to be any strangling done he would do his share. Thus they
stood, with every nerve braced and every sense alert, waiting for the
first test.
The grip of the Antelope, who, it will be remembered, was taller than
George, suddenly tightened and he bore our young friend backward. But
the latter kept his feet and braced for the struggle to fling the other
forward on his face, which was made the next instant. Then the seesawing
went on for several seconds and with the same alternating abruptness as
before, when the young Indian put forth his utmost power to lift the
other off his feet. Had he succeeded, he would have had no trouble in
flinging him forward on his back or face, for a person can do little
when kicking in the air with his feet clear of the earth.
George defeated his enemy by also lifting. With both straining in the
same manner neither could succeed, and the weight of both remained on
the ground. Then the Antelope ceased his effort, with the intention of
trying some “lock” of which the white boy knew nothing. [Illustration:
The Anglo-Saxon Every Time.]
But this was the opportunity for which George Shelton was waiting. In
the instant of the cessation by his antagonist, the watchful lad
suddenly put forth every ounce of strength and lifted the young Indian
clear. He strove desperately to regain his footing, but his shabby
moccasins vainly trod the air, and before he could recover his grip
George hurled him violently forward on his side. He struck the ground
with a shock that made it tremble. George lay across his body, from
which the breath was driven.
Never was fairer fall seen. The young Shoshone was defeated so
decisively that, had there been an official umpire or referee, no appeal
could have been made to him.
“Good! Good!” exclaimed the delighted Victor, dancing with delight and
clapping his hands. “I’ll own you for my brother, George. _I_ couldn’t
have done better.”
Mul-tal-la grinned, for he could not conceal his pleasure. The
spectators, including Young Elk, looked savage, and the brow of Black
Elk was like a thundercloud. No one spoke, but all must have thought
volumes.
Having thrown his rival, George Shelton lay across him for a few
moments, then leaped up, sprang back several paces, and turning to
Mul-tal-la, said:
“Tell him, if he wants it, I’ll give him another chance.”
“No; my brother has won his gun.”
At the same moment Black Elk reached to the warrior holding the rifle,
and, taking it from him, strode to where George Shelton was standing and
handed it back without a word. Thus far the chief was certainly disposed
to act fairly.
“Thank you for giving me what is mine,” said the exultant youth, bowing
so low and smiling so broadly that the chief must have understood he was
receiving thanks, even though none of the words was intelligible.
“Now, Victor,” added George, turning to his brother as he stepped beside
him, “I’ll say to you what you said to me—that is, that if you don’t get
the best of that grinning imp, who is eager to pummel you, you’re no
brother of mine.”
While the discomfited wrestler slouched back beside his father, who
acted as if he was ashamed of him, the other son fairly bounded into the
arena. He stood grinning, with fists doubled, and manifestly impatient
for the sport to begin. To hurry his foe he twisted his face into an
insulting grimace.
No one knew Victor’s quick temper better than his brother. It was that
which caused him his only misgiving.
“Victor,” said he, with much earnestness, “if you don’t keep cool and
have all your wits about you, you’ll get whipped. He’s stronger than his
brother, and you have a harder job before you than I did. Remember—KEEP
COOL!”
Now, Victor himself was fully aware of his infirmity, but, like many
thus afflicted, he often yielded to it. At the very opening of the bout
he came within a hair of falling a victim to his own impetuous temper.
Neither he nor the Shoshone displayed any of the scientific points which
are seen to-day when two professionals face each other in the ring, for
they had not had any instruction. You would have said the pose of both
was wrong, for, instead of holding the right hand across and in front of
the chest for purposes of parrying, while the “leading” was done with
the left, they stood with fists thrust out and side by side, but both
balanced themselves well on their feet, and were on the watch for an
opening.
Victor looked straight into the dusky face and felt a thrill of anger
when the Shoshone indulged in another tantalizing grimace. Young Elk
made several quick feints, and then, with surprising quickness, smote
the cheek of Victor with the flat of his hand, and leaped back and
grinned at him.
The blow set Victor’s blood aflame, and, forgetting caution, he rushed
upon the other, only, however, to receive a second blow which almost
carried him off his feet. It was directly on the mouth and started the
blood. But it undid the mischief of the slap given a moment before. Our
young friend suddenly realized that he had no slight task before him,
and he heeded the words of his brother, who again called to him to keep
cool. He mastered his temper and did a clever thing by pretending to be
scared. When Young Elk carefully advanced he retreated, and hurriedly
glanced over his shoulder, as if looking for a place of refuge.
The Indian was deceived and grew confident. He came forward and drew
back his right fist ready to strike, while Victor continued cautiously
to give ground. Finally he braced and awaited the attack. The closed
hand of the Shoshone shot forward, but the blow was eluded by an instant
recoil of the head for an inch or two. Victor felt the wind of the blow
on his nose, so close came the fist of his foe.
Then with astonishing quickness he concentrated his strength in his good
right arm and landed straight and true upon the cheek of the other, who
was sent backward and reeled to one knee, but was up again in a flash.
It became clear that Young Elk was afflicted with as quick a temper as
vexed the white youth, for he made a blind, headlong rush, as if to
carry everything before him. As he dashed on, his arms sawed the air
like a windmill. Victor, never more cool and self-possessed, parried for
a moment or two until another opening offered, when he drove his fist
again into the flaming countenance with a force that sent his antagonist
flat upon his back. He had scored a clean knockdown.
But the Shoshone was not yet vanquished. He bounded to his feet as if
made of rubber, and with more coolness than before advanced again upon
his antagonist. Each was now in a mental state to do full justice to his
own prowess. Several minutes were spent in “sparring for an opening,”
but Victor Shelton quickly proved he was superior in skill. He dodged
and parried several blows, and, when he landed again, it was the most
effective stroke yet done. He delivered his fist accurately upon the jaw
of the grinning youth, who again went down.
Victor sprang forward and stood over him, waiting for the Shoshone to
rise that he might give him the finishing blow. Young Elk lay as if
“taking the count.” He was dazed for the moment by the terrific blows he
had received, and all the fight was knocked out of him. He looked up at
the young gladiator, then rose, and, instead of facing him, turned and
ran at full speed down the ridge.
The amazed Victor took two or three steps in pursuit, but immediately
saw that he was not the equal of the other in fleetness, and drew back.
The exasperated chief shouted to his son to return, but he was too
panic-stricken to obey, and continued running.
Victor was thrown into wild rage by his disappointment. He was not yet
through with his foe—though it would seem that he ought to have been—and
he wheeled around, panting, and looking for some one upon whom to vent
his wrath.
“What are you gaping at?”
The question was addressed to the Antelope, standing bewildered and
mystified by the whirlwind rush of events. Before he could answer, if he
had been disposed to do so, Victor drove his fist into the partly
painted face and toppled the owner over on his back. He was heard to
grunt as he struck the ground, and, hastily clambering to his feet, he
too turned and fled after his still running brother as if death were at
his heels.
“I’ll fight _you_, if you want it,” called Victor, striding in front of
the chief, who probably did not understand his meaning. “Fetch on all
the Shoshones in the country, and I’ll tumble them on top of one
another.”
But George Shelton and Mul-tal-la saw the moment had come to interfere.
The latter hastily stepped up to the lad and laid a restraining hand on
his shoulder. George did the same.
“Come, Victor,” he said, “you have done enough; you have won your gun,
and now don’t spoil everything by your foolishness.”
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