BETWEEN THE LINES
As Robert ran forward he caught a fleeting glimpse of Deerfoot. He saw
his Indian friend locked in a death struggle with his foe. Over and over
upon the ground the two men rolled, sometimes one on top and sometimes
the other. Neither had been able thus far to deal any decisive blow, and
each one was doing his utmost to use his knife or tomahawk.
The sight spurred Robert forward, and a feeling of intense rage welled
up into his heart. His family had been murdered and his home destroyed.
His brother had been shot and now the last person to whom he could turn
on earth was struggling for his life with one of these same enemies of
his. All that had befallen him swept through Robert’s mind in a flash.
Red spots danced before his eyes and he was more angry than he had ever
been before in his life.
He was afraid to shoot, however, for fear he might hit Deerfoot. The two
men were so entwined in each other’s embrace that it was sometimes hard
to distinguish one from the other. Neither one was aware of Robert’s
presence. It was not so with the other Indians, however. A hot fire was
directed at the daring young pioneer and only the deadly shooting of his
comrades saved him from a personal attack.
Robert dodged behind the tree for protection while he cautiously peered
out. He was waiting his chance to step in and deal the blow that would
return Deerfoot victor in the struggle. The two men were straining every
nerve and every muscle in their effort to gain the mastery. The veins
stood out upon their foreheads, while great beads of perspiration
streamed from every pore. Their breath came in gasps and it seemed
impossible that human strength could endure such a test much longer.
Evidently the strugglers must soon weaken, and such proved to be the
case.
The one that weakened first, however, was Deerfoot. His opponent had
grasped him by the throat and shut off his breath. With his breath gone
Deerfoot’s strength ebbed quickly. Little by little his resistance
ceased until by a supreme effort his opponent gained the upper hand and
in a short time he sat upon Deerfoot’s chest, his hands still clutching
the Pottowattomie’s windpipe. Deerfoot’s conqueror leered exultantly as
he reached for his knife to complete his work.
This move, however, was Robert’s cue to act and he responded at once.
Grasping his rifle by the barrel with both hands the young volunteer
stepped out from behind the tree. He moved noiselessly and so intent was
his foe upon what he was doing that Robert’s actions escaped unnoticed.
He raised his gun and swinging it twice around brought it squarely down
upon the shaved head of his enemy.
That was all. The Sac, without even so much as a groan, rolled over and
lay still upon the ground. His knife slipped from his hand and not a
muscle in his body quivered. He was dead.
“Come, Deerfoot!” cried Robert. “Come quickly!”
He grasped his friend by his hand and lifted him to his feet. For a
moment Deerfoot seemed dazed and he passed his hand over his throat.
“Come on! Come on!” urged Robert. “Joe is lying out here wounded, and we
must look after him.”
“Me come,” replied Deerfoot huskily. He turned and looked at his fallen
opponent, but Robert grasped his arm. He knew what was passing in his
red ally’s mind and he forestalled the impulse.
“No scalping now,” he exclaimed. “We’ll be killed if we stay here any
longer. Please come, Deerfoot.”
The bullets still sang about their heads. One struck Robert’s gun,
scarring the stock and tearing it almost from his grasp. Evidently there
was no time to lose. He caught hold of Deerfoot’s arm and half dragging
him hurried his friend from the perilous place.
As they emerged from the shelter of the trees a shout of welcome from
their comrades and a yell of rage from their enemies at the same time
greeted them. The sound, however, scarcely made any impression upon the
two daring men. So intent were they upon the task at hand that nothing
else seemed of any consequence to them.
“Bend low and follow me, Deerfoot,” cried Robert, loosing his hold on
the Pottowattomie’s arm. He started quickly toward the spot where Joseph
was lying and Deerfoot came close behind him. It was a new experience
for Robert to be giving orders to his redskinned friend, but the young
frontiersman enjoyed it none the less on that account. Deerfoot was
rapidly regaining his strength and composure, however, and Robert’s
supremacy threatened to be shortlived.
Through the storm of leaden death they ran. A few seconds, which seemed
like hours to the young pioneer-soldier, elapsed, and they arrived at
the place where Joseph was lying.
“Take his head. I’ll take his feet,” cried Robert. Joseph made no
objection and merely groaned as he was lifted from the ground and borne
rapidly in the direction of his own forces and of safety.
“Stop here,” ordered Robert sharply, as they came to the fallen log
behind which he and his brother had taken refuge, a few moments before.
They came to an abrupt halt and as tenderly as possible placed Joseph
upon the ground.
“How do you feel, Joe?” asked Robert, bending anxiously over his
brother.
“Pretty weak,” replied Joseph in a husky voice. His face was white and
drawn with pain, but his jaw was set and all his will power was being
exerted.
“He bleed much,” exclaimed Deerfoot. “Me fix him.” He quickly tore a
strip from his hunting shirt and fastened it around Joseph’s leg, just
above the wound. Exerting all his strength he then drew the bandage as
tightly as he was able so that the blood would be held back and as
little as possible should escape. Joseph seemed to be suffering more
pain as time went on. The first shock of the bullet had stunned him so
that his senses mostly were dulled to any feeling of physical suffering.
Not so now, however, for try as he might he could not help giving
evidence that he was in agony.
“That’s better, Deerfoot,” Robert remarked. “Do you think he is wounded
badly?”
“No,” replied Deerfoot shortly. “He bleed bad but not serious.” He had
slit Joseph’s trousers up the side so that the wound was exposed to
view. The bullet had passed through the fleshy part of the leg, tearing
an ugly hole, but it was easy to be seen that the trouble was not likely
to be lasting.
“He’s bled enough at any rate,” exclaimed Robert grimly. “You look
almost as though you had one red trouser leg, Joe. Is that the new
style?”
“I don’t know, Bob. I haven’t looked at it,” Joseph answered weakly.
Much of his strength had ebbed away with his blood, though the flow had
been largely checked by Deerfoot’s treatment. The Indian was now engaged
in bandaging the wound itself. His idea was to fix his young friend
temporarily so that he would be safe until he could receive much better
treatment.
“Look at yourself, Joe,” urged Robert. “You’re certainly a sight.”
With an effort Joseph raised himself upon one elbow and glanced at his
blood-stained leg. One look was enough, however, for with a quick intake
of his breath Joseph suddenly fainted away.
“Now I’ve done it,” exclaimed Robert. “I ought to have known better than
to say a thing like that.”
“He all right,” said Deerfoot stoically.
“But he has fainted,” Robert protested. “How can we bring him to?”
“No try,” said Deerfoot. “Let him stay fainted.”
“Won’t it hurt him any?”
“No,” said Deerfoot, and he had apparently dismissed the subject from
his mind, for he turned his back on the two brothers and glanced out
over the battlefield.
As long as Black Hawk’s band remained in their present position the
three volunteers were safe where they were. They were crouched upon the
ground behind the log which provided ample protection. Behind them were
their own men, while they were well screened from the enemy.
“How long are we going to stay here?” demanded Robert at length.
Deerfoot made no answer, and to all outward appearances he did not even
hear the question.
“How long are we going to stay here?” Robert repeated.
“You want to leave?” asked Deerfoot mildly.
“Well,” said Robert, “it’s growing dark and it doesn’t seem to me we
ought to stay here much longer. Some one of Black Hawk’s braves will
sneak around in back of us and we’ll be cut off if we are not careful.”
“That right,” Deerfoot agreed, and he glanced at Joseph as he spoke. As
he did so, the wounded young pioneer opened his eyes and sighed heavily.
“We’re going to carry you the rest of the way now, Joe,” Robert
announced cheerily. “We’ll start any time you say.”
“I’m ready,” replied Joseph, at the same time trying to force a smile.
“All right then, Deerfoot, let’s go,” said Robert. “We’ll carry him just
as we did before. You don’t mind if the trip is rough, do you, Joe?
We’ve got to travel fast, you know.”
“The faster the better,” said Joseph.
Deerfoot reconnoitered the nearby ground, but saw nothing to alarm him.
Everything was quiet, even the guns having ceased momentarily.
“We go now,” announced Deerfoot, and he and Robert bent down to pick up
their wounded young companion. They were just lifting him from the
ground when a warning shout caused them to set him down quickly once
more.
“What was that?” cried Robert. He immediately seized his rifle and held
it ready for instant use. Deerfoot, too, was instantly alert.
“Red!” The call was repeated. It was John Mason’s voice and Robert
recognized it at once. The little band of scouts were not more than
thirty or forty yards distant so that conversation could easily be
carried on.
“What is it?” called Robert.
“Come back as quickly as you can!” shouted Mason. “I think there are two
Indians stealing up on you through the long grass.”
“All right,” replied Robert.
“We’d better hurry, Deerfoot,” he exclaimed. “They say some Indians are
creeping up on us here. We can’t waste any more time.”
“We wasted some listening to Mason,” Joseph remarked.
“I know it,” cried Robert impatiently. “Wouldn’t you think he could see
that we were starting when he yelled at us? We’ll have to hurry more
than ever now. Come on, Deerfoot,” he urged, and once more he bent down
and grasped Joseph by his ankles.
“What’s the matter, Deerfoot?” he exclaimed angrily as the Pottowattomie
made no move to help him.
Just at that moment, however, Deerfoot snatched his tomahawk from his
belt and hurled it with all his force.