The prairie was limitless. As far as the eye could see, and as much
further as fancy cared to picture, it spread out like an ocean, endless
and eternal. In wave upon wave of many-colored luxuriance, it rolled
onward, until all color melted into the purplish hue of the horizon.
There was, it is true, a thin line of low cottonwoods, marking the
course of some little creek; but that might have been a mere coral
reef in the ocean, or a swath of drifting seaweed. There were, also,
two small islands of trees in the distance; but islands are necessary
to prove the existence of ocean. Far away to the westward could be
dimly descried the shadowy outlines of lofty mountains; but their snowy
peaks, resting among the clouds, could not be distinguished from the
clouds, and fancy could easily suppose that the prairie rolled under
and beyond them, instead of bathing their rough feet in its flowery
waves. As well as vision could decide, the prairie was a limitless
ocean.
Only a speck in this vast ocean was the figure of a man on horseback,
riding toward the west. He rode slowly, almost listlessly, seeming
absorbed in the beauty of the variegated landscape, given up to the
sweet influences of the exhilarating and odorous atmosphere.
A fine specimen of a man was this rider, whose age might have been
a few years on the sunny side of thirty. He was fully six feet in
hight, well formed and athletic, with features that a woman would
call handsome, in spite of his bronzed skin. His gray eyes were keen
and restless; his chestnut hair, worn long, after the fashion of the
Indians and trappers, flowed down upon his shoulders in wavy masses;
his mouth was well cut, shaded by a silky mustache; and his beard,
long and full, had the same rich color as his hair. His hunting-shirt
and leggings were of the finest dressed deer-skin, and were richly and
tastefully ornamented. His moccasins, also, showed the patient labor
of some Indian woman, and must have cost the wearer a good quantity
of trinkets or of scarlet cloth, if, indeed, they had not been a
love-gift. His pipe-holder must surely have been a _gage d’amour_;
for it was a triumph of Indian workmanship, such as the squaws of the
plains were not in the habit of selling. A double-barreled rifle,
short, heavy, and richly finished, was his principal weapon, and
rested across his right leg and the pommel of his saddle. A bright and
keen-edged hatchet, or small ax, was stuck in his belt, flanked by a
hunting-knife in an embroidered sheath. From his appearance, he might
have been an independent trapper; but he carried no traps or sack of
“possibles,” and had no animal except the fine jet-black horse which he
bestrode.
“Nearly noon,” he soliloquized, looking up at the sun. “If I do not
strike the trail of old Robinette’s party before long, I shall conclude
that they are behind me, and it will be necessary to wait for them. I
had better join them, I suppose, as I want an outfit for the coming
season, and I am curious to see whether his daughter is as beautiful as
she has been represented to be. As if that was a matter that concerned
me at all! It is possible that I might find some woman who could
persuade me to quit this wild life; but it lacks a great deal of being
probable. It is possible, though, that I may have strayed from my
course, and I must consult my little true-pointer.”
Stopping his horse, he drew from the bosom of his hunting-shirt a small
pocket-compass, rested it in the palm of his hand, and watched its
indications.
“No; I’m on the right track--no mistake about that. I must cross the
trail soon, if they have got this far. Ha! what is coming yonder? A
red-skin, I suppose, and one who wants my scalp. Now, Samson, who knows
but we may have a little brush to stir our blood?”
The horse pricked up his ears, whinnied, and seemed to anticipate a
combat as eagerly as his master.
It was a mere speck that attracted the attention of the rider; but it
was a moving speck, and he could easily guess what it meant. When he
caught sight of it, he might have mistaken it for a solitary buffalo;
but a brief inspection showed him that its movements were not those of
the buffalo. Soon something white came into view, and the rays of the
sun, shining upon it, made the speck look like a moving star.
Within a short time the speck was no longer a speck, but had assumed
the form and proportions of an Indian on horseback. The white man
reined in his horse, took his rifle in his right hand, and awaited the
approach of the stranger.
When the Indian had come within rifle-shot, the white man judged it
best to signal him and ascertain his intentions. Accordingly, he raised
his right hand, with the palm in front, and pushed it back and forth a
few times. This was a signal to halt; but the savage, after shaking his
head furiously, paid no further attention to it, but put his horse to
full speed, and commenced to circle around his foe.
Mounted on a jet-black horse, the exact image of that which carried the
white man, he presented a fine appearance as he galloped swiftly over
the plain. He was nearly naked, his blanket being under him, and his
skin shone as if it had been freshly oiled. With fine features, eyes as
fierce and keen as lightning, and supple and sinewy limbs, every motion
showing the play of his muscles, he presented an excellent object for
the study of the painter or the sculptor. His scalp-lock, adorned with
feathers, showed that he held a high rank as a brave. In his right
hand he carried a gun, a bow and a quiver of arrows were slung at his
back, and an Indian battle-ax hung at his left side. On his left arm he
carried a shield, round and white, which was dazzling to the beholder
when the rays of the sun were reflected from it.
“That red-skin don’t want to talk,” muttered the white man. “He is keen
for fight, and won’t be satisfied until he gets his fill. Well, I think
I can accommodate him.”
As the Indian circled over the prairie, the white man, with his
rifle at his shoulder, kept turning, so as continually to face his
antagonist. His horse, obedient to the slightest pressure of his knee,
turned where he stood, as if he comprehended, as well as his master,
the best position for defense.
It was the object of the Indian to draw the fire of the white man; but
he soon perceived that his foe was too wary for him, and he changed
his tactics. Slinging his gun, he took his bow and some arrows from
his shoulder. He then fastened one foot in his wooden stirrup, threw
his body over on the right side of the horse, and again commenced to
ride around the white man, drawing nearer at every circle, until he
was within easy bow-shot, when he began to discharge his arrows at his
antagonist.
This position of affairs soon became unpleasant to the white man, as
the arrows flew uncomfortably near him, and he was obliged to change
his position. He dismounted, and stood at the side of his horse,
turning as the Indian wheeled, so as to make a breastwork of the
animal. Still the Indian sent his arrows flying, and one of them struck
the horse in the shoulder.
Smarting with pain, the wounded animal went off at a gallop. As the
Indian raised himself to his seat with a cry of triumph, the indignant
white man discharged one of the barrels of his rifle at him; but the
wily savage had dropped down by the side of his horse.
Supposing that he had drawn the fire of his enemy, the exultant Indian
again raised himself to his seat, and fired quickly. The white man’s
rifle cracked again at the same instant, and the Indian’s horse fell
upon him. Seeing his enemy entangled by his horse, the white man rushed
upon him with his tomahawk; but, before he could reach him, the Indian
was up, with his battle-ax in his hand.
The contest was now one of skill and strength; but both parties, having
tried each other’s mettle, fought slowly and warily, husbanding their
wind for an effective stroke. The blows of each were so well parried,
that the combatants became wearied in the encounter before either had
sustained any serious injury, and they drew back, as if by mutual
consent, to recover breath.
At this juncture a sudden thought seemed to strike the Indian, who
raised both of his hands above his head, with the forefingers locked.
This, in the pantomimic language of the plains, understood by all the
prairie Indians, was a sign of friendship. He then threw his battle-ax
behind him, and stepped forward three paces, extending his right arm
with the hand open.
The white man hesitated a moment, and then, as if ashamed of himself
for mistrusting his late adversary, dropped his tomahawk, and advanced
in his turn with extended hand.
“If you really are a friend, red-skin,” he said, in the Dacotah
dialect, “you have a strange way of showing it; but I am willing to
forget and forgive.”
“My white friend is a warrior,” replied the Indian. “He is a great
brave, and I am glad that I have met him. Let him come with me, and he
shall share my lodge, and shall be my brother.”
“Perhaps we had better wait a little before going so far. I am not
quite so ready to join hands with a man who has just sought my life.
You are a Blackfoot, I should say, judging from your paint. What name
do you go by?”
“My brother has guessed well. I am a Blackfoot, and am a great brave
among my people, who have named me White Shield. What is my brother
called?”
“My name is Fred Wilder, and the red-skins call me Silverspur, because,
I suppose, I have always worn one of those articles among them.”
The young man reached out his foot, showing a large silver spur, with a
steel rowel, strapped upon his moccasin.
“I have heard of Silverspur from the Grovans and the Kickarees, as
well as from the Sioux. He is a great warrior, and I am proud to know
him. Let him share my lodge and be my brother. My people will be glad
to see him.”
“But the Blackfeet are enemies of the whites. How do I know but they
may take my scalp.”
“White Shield is a great brave, and the Blackfeet will do what he tells
them to do. They will never harm his brother, but will love and honor
him.”
“But I am a trapper, and must hunt beaver and otter. I am looking for
the party of Mr. Robinette, which is on its way to the mountains. I
must get traps and an outfit from them. Has White Shield seen them or
heard of them?”
“I have heard of them; but they have not yet come into this country. My
brother need give himself no trouble about them. Let him come with me,
and he will find traps, and I will show him better beaver-streams than
he has ever seen. He can live among the Blackfeet and trade with them,
and can get more skins than any other trader.”
It may have been the love of adventure that moved Fred Wilder, or it
may have been the desire of gain, stimulated by the prospect that the
Blackfoot held out to him. Impulsively he grasped the hand of White
Shield, and the two pledged eternal friendship and brotherhood after
the Indian fashion.
“My brother was fighting me a few moments ago,” said Wilder. “Why was
he so anxious to kill me? It is seldom that you red-skins dare to
attack a white man singly, unless you have an advantage over him.”
“White Shield is no coward,” replied the Blackfoot. “It is long since I
have taken a scalp, and my people have lately suffered many reverses.
I wished to carry home a scalp, so that the Blackfeet in my village
might wash the mourning paint from their faces. I did not know that my
brother had the advantage of me, in owning a rifle that would shoot
twice. I never saw such a rifle.”
“I had the advantage of you in another point, after your horse was
killed. You were afoot, while I might have mounted at any moment.”
Wilder whistled, and his horse, which was grazing at a little distance,
came running to him. He examined the wound, which was a slight one,
and transferred to the back of the horse the Indian’s saddle and
blankets and bridle. The two then set out toward the north-west, White
Shield leading the way on foot.