AMERICA VERSUS IRELAND.
Having satisfied themselves that they could not have fallen upon a safer
place, the boys came back to their camp, as it may be called, and sat
down in front of the blaze. Their knapsacks were unstrapped from their
backs and the blankets spread upon the leaves. There was some moisture
in the thick cloth, but not enough to deter them from using them as
couches. Their own clothing had become dry, and, under the warm glow of
the fire, the blankets would soon be the same.
In spite of the reconnoissance just made, both felt some uneasiness over
their own situation. They were confident that no one further away than
two or three rods would observe the fire, but the possibility remained
that some enemy might pass within that space, brief as it was. Their
experience since leaving Greville taught them that a large number of
Winnebagos were in the wilderness, and, as Terry remarked, the nearer
they approached camp, the more plentiful did they seem to become.
It was this feeling which caused them to let the fire sink to half its
first size and led them to keep far back within the circle of light
thrown into the surrounding gloom. They talked in low voices, often
listening and looking around, and were in any thing but a comfortable
frame of mind. The feeling with them was that if any enemy should happen
to be lurking in the vicinity, every possible advantage would be on his
side.
"I feel, Terry, as though all this is wasted time. I know it is more
than likely that the Winnebagos are doing the same as we, that is,
nothing at all; but that makes me more anxious to push on."
"I've an idaa," remarked the Irish lad, who was stretched out in a lazy
posture, with his cap in hand, while, as was his custom, he scratched
his pate with the other; "I'm thinkin' why couldn't we aich take a torch
in hand and walk along over the path with the same?"
Fred was half inclined to try the experiment, but fear prevented. They
had learned that the Winnebagos were not only in the rear but in front.
No more conspicuous target can be given than that of a person carrying a
lighted torch: it was the same as when a man with a candle in his hand
starts out to explore his house for burglars. So that plan was not
adopted.
Terry was about to speak to his companion, when the latter saw him
start, and, rising quickly to the sitting position, stare at a point
beyond Fred. He had seen something that terrified him.
With his big round eyes still fixed on the gloom behind young Linden,
Terry stealthily reached for his gun, which lay on the leaves close by,
and softly drew back the flint. Fred, as may be supposed, was alarmed,
and starting half to his feet, glanced nervously around.
He saw nothing.
"What's the matter?" he asked in an undertone, as he also laid his hand
upon his weapon.
"Whin I was lookin' at ye," said Terry in a husky whisper, "I obsarved
one of the spalpeens standin' right behind ye and close enough to touch
ye with his hand. Before I could spake, he slipped out of sight like a
shadder."
Fred did not ask his companion whether he was sure of what he said, for
he knew he was not mistaken.
"That shows we shouldn't have started the fire; it has caught the eye of
some of the Indians, who will be here in a few minutes; let's slip back
in the darkness and get as far off as we can; it don't make much
difference what course we take, but it will never do to stay here."
Fred Linden had no more than completed his guarded remark, when he too
caught sight of a warrior standing on the very edge of the circle of
light and looking straight at him. The view of the dusky intruder was
faint but unmistakable.
The outlines and figure received enough of the firelight to cause him to
look like a dim painting against a dark background. He was holding a
rifle in one hand and appeared to be contemplating the lads, as if
seeking to learn their identity before he advanced or performed some
action.
"_Sh!_ don't stir," whispered Fred, softly raising the hammer of his
gun, "I see him,--I'll drop him!"
With the utmost caution he brought the gun around in front until it was
almost to his breast. Then as quickly as he could he raised it to his
shoulder and aimed at the daring redskin.
But the latter was invisible, he had vanished like the picture on the
slide of a magic lantern.
As you may suppose, the boys began to feel queer. There was something so
peculiar about this business that, as Terry expressed it, he was "crawly
all over." What they might have done can only be guessed, for before
they could move away from the fire, Deerfoot the Shawanoe, who had been
having a little amusement at their expense, advanced from the gloom and
addressed them.
"The heart of Deerfoot is glad when he sees his brothers do not sleep;
he has watched them, but their eyes are open."
"Wal, be the powers!" muttered Terry Clark, hastily rising to his feet,
as did Fred; "the spalpeen that plays that trick on me has got to fight
it out."
And he began taking off his coat and spitting on his hands, to show that
the matter could only be settled by a bout at fisticuffs. Deerfoot had
extended his hand to Fred and he smiled at the combative Irish lad, who
put up his fists and began dancing about him in the most belligerent
fashion.
"Give him a trial," whispered Fred, with a laugh.
"Deerfoot loves his brothers; he can not hurt them."
"If ye can git the bist of mesilf," said Terry, who was still sawing the
air and hopping about as though the ground had become hot; "I'll think
more of ye than iver before, bein' that I think more of ye now than I
ever can, and I defy ye to sit your gun aside and git the bist of me in
any way."
"Go for him," urged Fred, knowing that the Irish boy, strong and active
as he was, had no chance with the Shawanoe; "he thinks he is your
master when you don't use your weapons. If you will give him a lesson,
it will do him good."
"Deerfoot will try to be a teacher to my brother," said the Shawanoe
gravely, handing his gun to Fred, and following with his knife and
tomahawk, that he might have no weapons except such as nature gave him.
Then he threw some wood on the fire, so that the space immediately
surrounding them was as light as noonday. Finally, every thing being
ready, he proceeded to "go for" Mr. Terence Clark in a truly aboriginal
fashion.
Now, it must be borne in mind that, though there was and could not be
the least ill feeling between the youths, yet each was resolutely
resolved to overcome the other in the most emphatic manner at his
command. Terry did not mean to batter the handsome face of his dusky
friend, but to tap it so smartly that he would feel it. The naturally
combative lad was an adept with his fists, and he meant to strike
Deerfoot often enough to convince him of his inferiority. Then he would
rush in, seize the young warrior and throw him to the ground, repeating
it several times, until his antagonist cried, "Hold! Enough!" Fred
Linden was to play the part of referee, and decide which was the better
man. Thus you see the match bore some similarity to those of the present
day, in which the victor is declared to be the one who in a certain
number of rounds gains the advantage of the other.
"As I am to be the boss of this business," sald Fred, with the keenest
zest, "let me explain the terms: Each one is to strike the other as
often as he can, the blows to be sharp enough to be felt pretty plainly,
but not enough to cause any injury. I will let this go on until one of
you has enough, or until I am satisfied of the superiority of one over
the other. After that you are to have a wrestling match. When I call for
you to stop, you must do so, no matter how anxious you may be to go on.
Is that understood?"
"The terms are agraaable to mesilf," said Terry; "it is sittled that
there's to be no bettin' on the match."
"I have no objection to your betting if you wish, but inasmuch as you
haven't a cent and Deerfoot never did such a thing as bet in all his
life, I don't think there will be any trouble about holding the stakes."
"There ain't to be any foul blows in this," added Terry, who showed that
he knew more than most of his friends about the "Irish champions" and
the cause that made them champions of England and Ireland.
"What do you mean by foul blows?" asked the puzzled Fred.
"Hits below the belt. What I wished to observe, howiver, is that we
ain't to recognize such things as foul blows in this fight for the
championship of Louisiana. Aich one is to git the bist of the ither in
the bist way he can. The rule, Deerfut, is for such pugilists to shake
hands before beginnin' to try to knock aich ither out."
And Terry extended his hand, which the young warrior gravely shook, for,
as you can well understand, this was something to which he was
altogether unaccustomed. He knew, however, the nature of the contest
between himself and his doughty Irish friend, and he entered into it
with the calm confidence with which he would have engaged Tecumseh
himself in a fight to the death with knives.
Deerfoot did not put up his hands after the manner of a pugilist, nor
did he even close them, but fixing his eyes on those of Terry (just as
he always did in his deadly fights with his antagonists), he began
softly circling about him, like a cat searching for a chance to leap
upon his prey.
This did not disconcert Terry, whose pose would have been pronounced
excellent by any one competent to judge. The left arm and foot were
advanced, the right fist being held across and just in front of the
breast, ready to take advantage of the first opening that presented
itself.
As Deerfoot circled around Terry, the latter moved around him, each on
the alert for a chance.
"Moind yer eye," Terry was kind enough to say; "it's a pity to sp'il
such a handsome face, but a sinse of dooty will not allow me to thrifle,
and so here goes!"
With that he made a creditable lunge with his left, instantly following
it with his right hand, and leaping back to avoid a counter. He did not
strike Deerfoot nor did he receive a blow in return.
"Ye are quick on yer faat and very good at dodgin', but it is an
obligation ye owe to yersilf and to America to show whither thim foin
purty hands can hit----"
_Rap, whack, spat!_ The Shawanoe smote one cheek of Terry, then the
other, and then his mouth, the blows being so quick that they seemed to
be simultaneous. At the moment they were delivered, the Irish lad could
not see that the young warrior had stirred. He appeared to be moving in
his cat-like way around him, but beyond reach of Terry's own tough
fists. Seeing that he must force matters, he made a furious rush for his
antagonist.
You must not set down Terry Clark as an awkward fellow who went into the
contest without any skill. His father in his younger days was one of the
best fighters in the north of Ireland, and he had taught considerable of
his science to his only son, who gave an exhibition of what he could do
when he smote the Winnebago that was swinging the cow-bell. There was
not a lad anywhere near his years in Greville whom he could not master.
Deerfoot knew nothing of the modern rules of self-defense. His
superiority lay in his unequaled dexterity and quickness. It was that,
as you will recall, which enabled him to win so many victories over foes
who were his superior in every other respect.