“If ye want me to ring the old coow-bell, I’ll be glad to obleege, for the performance looks as if a little moosic would give tone to the same. Howsumever, I’ll step back and let this good looking young gintleman run the show.”
Thereupon Terry withdrew several paces and watched the proceedings with a depth of interest that can be fully understood.
The look of the Winnebago, who was half reclining on his side, supporting his body with the hand that grasped his gun, plainly indicated the question that came from his lips.
“Why does my brother look with evil eyes on the Wolf, who has come from the lodges of the Winnebagos? Are not all red men brothers?”
“Deerfoot is a Shawanoe, whose warriors have consorted with those of the Winnebagos; but Deerfoot has left his lodge beyond the Mississippi and lives alone in the woods. He will not hurt the brave Winnebago who fights men, but he slays the Wolf that bites the children of the pale faces, that have never harmed him.”
Possibly the Wolf was inclined to argue the matter with the Shawanoe, who had caught him at such disadvantage; but the manner and words of Deerfoot showed that he was in no mood for discussion.
“What does my brother want?” asked the Winnebago, in a voice that proved all fight had left him. The most, indeed, that he ventured to do was gently to rub his forehead and nose, where the fists of the sturdy Terry Clark had landed.
“Let the Wolf rise to his feet, but when he does so, his gun must lie on the ground.”
This was a harsh order, but there was no help for it; the Indian hesitated a moment, and then, black and scowling, he slowly assumed the upright posture, and, folding his arms across his chest, looked in the face of the bright-eyed Deerfoot, to signify that he was awaiting his next command.
“The Wolf shall now turn his face away from Deerfoot.”
The Winnebago obeyed the order as promptly as if he were a soldier undergoing drill.
“Let my brother now raise his eyes, until he sees the beech with the white trunk,” said Deerfoot, using the word “brother” for the first time.
The object to which he alluded was perhaps fifty yards distant, the light color of the bark showing only here and there among the branches and undergrowth that happened to be less frequent than in other directions. The Wolf signified that he recognized the tree to which his conqueror referred.
“Now let my brother run; when he reaches the beech he can leap behind it, and it will shield his body; if my brother is slow Deerfoot may fire his gun and Wolf will never bite again.”
The Winnebago wanted no explanation of this threat. It was hard for him to depart, leaving his rifle, but it was harder for him to lose his life, and he did not hesitate as to the choice. He made one tremendous bound that carried him a dozen feet, and then sped through the wood like a frightened deer. When he had passed half of the intervening distance, he seemed to fancy that he was not making satisfactory time for the Shawanoe, who, he doubtless imagined, was standing with leveled gun, finger on the trigger. He therefore began leaping from side to side, so as to disconcert the aim of the dreaded Deerfoot. In the hope also of further confusing him, he emitted several frenzied whoops, which added such grotesqueness to the scene that Terry Clark threw back his head and made the woods ring with laughter.
“I never saw a frog hop about like that, which beats any show.”
Deerfoot did not have his rifle cocked or in position. The moment the Wolf started, he saw how great his fright was, and, lowering the flint of the weapon, he rested the stock on the ground and watched the antics of the fugitive. The Shawanoe, unlike most of his race, had a vein of humor in his composition. When Terry broke into mirth, he too laughed, but it was simply a smile, accompanied by a sparkle of his bright eyes which showed how much he enjoyed the scene.
The moment the Wolf arrived at the beech, he darted behind it, and for the first time looked over his shoulder. The sight could not have been reassuring, for he continued his frenzied flight until the keen ear of the Shawanoe could no longer hear him threshing through the wood.
By this time Terry Clark had made up his mind that whoever the new arrival might be, he was a friend. The Irish lad had not been able to understand any of the words that passed between the two, though their actions were eloquent enough to render much explanation unnecessary. But a person who treated the Winnebago in such style could not feel otherwise than friendly toward the one in whose behalf the interference was made. Terry blushed a little as he walked forward and reached out his honest hand.
“If it’s all the same to ye, I’ll be glad to give that purty hand of yours an owld-fashioned shake, such as a fellow sometimes gits when he catches the chills an’ faver.”
Deerfoot looked at the jolly lad with an odd expression, as he gave him his hand, which, I need not say, was shaken with enthusiasm. The young Shawanoe smiled in his own shadowy way and returned the pressure warmly.
“My brother is happy,” said he when the salute was finished; “it makes the heart of Deerfoot glad that he could be his friend.”
“Ye were a friend indade, though ye’ll admit, Deerfut, that I toppled over the spalpeen in foine style, now didn’t I?”
“The Wolf who is a Winnebago, fell as though the lightning struck him.”
“How is it,” asked Terry with no little curiosity, “that ye, who are as full-blooded an Injin as the Winnebago, can talk the English with almost as foine an accint as meself?”
“Deerfoot has lived among the pale faces; when he was a small child he went with the Shawanoes to harm the white men, but they took him prisoner; they treated him kindly, and told him about God, who loves all His children, whether they be white or red, or the color of the night; they showed him how to read books, and to make his name and words on paper, so that others might read.”
“Can ye read and write?” asked the astonished Terry.
Deerfoot smiled and nodded his head.
“Well, well, that bates ivery thing!” said Terry, who instantly repeated the absurd belief of many of his race, by adding, “I didn’t s’pose that an Injin could learn.”
Without replying to the last remark, the Shawanoe, looking the lad steadily in the eye, said, “Deerfoot has a message for Fred Linden; does my brother know him?”
“Do I know him?” repeated Terry; “I know the same better than I know mesilf; he started wid me to hunt the coow, and I rickons that he can’t be very fur away.”
“He’s coming,” quietly said Deerfoot, looking off to the left of Terry, as if about to salute a new arrival. The Irish lad wheeled in his quick way, but his sharp eyes caught no glimpse of his approaching friend.
CHAPTER VI
Fred Linden Receives a Message from the Ozark Camp
As soon as Fred Linden discovered the deception respecting the cow-bell, he made all haste toward the point whence came the sound, in the hope of warning Terry in time to save him from treachery. You will understand how quickly events passed when told that, although he came almost directly to the spot, he did not reach it until Deerfoot the Shawanoe asked for him. This wonderful Indian, of whom I shall have considerably more to tell, heard the coming of the lad whom he had never seen, before either the eye or ear of Terry Clark could detect his approach.
As may well be supposed, Fred Linden was amazed at what met his eyes. The sight of Terry in friendly converse with a strange Indian was the opposite of what he expected to see. He slackened his hurried walk and looked inquiringly at Terry. The latter could talk fast when he chose, and the few sentences he rattled off as his companion came up made the matter tolerably clear.
While the questioning and talk were going on, Deerfoot stood leaning on his long gun and gazing with a certain natural dignity at the two friends. He said nothing nor did he appear to show any special curiosity, though had any one studied his countenance, he would have seen that he was watching Fred Linden. He had said that he carried a message to him, and it was no more than natural that he should wish to know something about him.
But it takes only a little time for such a group to become acquainted with each other. A general handshaking followed, and it happened more than once that all three were talking at the same moment. Had any one been able to translate the expression of Deerfoot’s countenance, he would have seen that he was pleased with both the lads whom he now met for the first time. There was a rollicking good nature, a cheery courage and ever bubbling hopefulness about Terry that were contagious, and like so much sunshine that went with him wherever he went.
Fred Linden was of that manly mold and rugged appearance that he would have drawn favorable attention wherever he might be.
Such a lad in these days would have been picked out as a born athlete, one who was capable, with proper training, to become a first-class ball player, oarsman or boxer. He was a swift runner, a strong leaper, an expert rifle shot, and his rugged frame and rough, outdoor life gave him an endurance that few men could surpass. He was as tall as Deerfoot, with broad shoulders, muscular arms and legs, clear, keen eyes, a fine chest and a symmetrical frame.
The clothes of the two boys, it is hardly necessary to say, were of homespun, for a hundred years ago it would have been hard for them to procure any other kind of goods. The short coat was somewhat like those used today by bicyclists, reaching only a short distance below the waist, where the girdle was fastened in front. The trowsers, of the same material, reached to the knees, below which were the hunting leggins, common along the border. Then came the warm, woolen stockings and thick, heavy shoes, while the head was surmounted by a woolen cap, made by the deft fingers at home, and without any pattern. It was soft, and having no forepiece, sat on the head in whichever position it happened to be first placed. In this respect it resembled the valuable sealskins of the present day. The coats of the lads were open in front, and within were the pockets, which they used as required, the trowsers also being provided with a couple of these prime necessities.
When the rattling conversation had gone on for several minutes, Terry ran a few steps and picked up the bell that the Indian had placed on the ground. The string which had held it about the neck of the animal was missing, having probably been cut by the knife of the impatient Wolf.
“I’ll take the same back home wid me and put it on Brindle if I iver maat her; I shouldn’t be so ’stonished that I couldn’t spake if I should find that the spalpeen had killed her.”
“No,” said Fred, “she isn’t harmed; I found her off yonder, cropping the buds and leaves, as innocently as though she hadn’t done any thing wrong in leading us on this long chase. I started her toward home, and if she keeps up the gait she must be pretty near there by this time.”
This was good news to Terry, for the loss of the animal would have been serious to the family of Mr. MacClaskey, her owner. The Irish lad had hardly picked up the bell when Deerfoot pointed to the gun lying on the ground, where it had been left by the Wolf.
“That belongs to my brother.”
The delighted Terry could hardly believe what was told him, and he stood looking doubtfully at Deerfoot, as if suspecting he had heard him amiss.
“It was you who captured the gun, Deerfoot, and so, if it belongs to any one, ye are the spalpeen.”
The Shawanoe looked down at his own handsome weapon and shook his head. He had no need of any other weapon. Besides, this singular youth could not have conscientiously taken it. He did not feel justified in keeping it for his own use, no matter if in sore need of such a weapon; but, since the Winnebago had made his demonstration against Terry Clark, and was compelled to leave the gun behind, when he was permitted to go, it seemed proper that the prize should fall into the hands of the Irish lad.
What gave special propriety to the act was the fact that, although Fred Linden was the owner of a fine gun, Terry had none. When his father lost his life, his rifle was never recovered, and though there was one in the family of MacClaskey, the youth had no claim upon it. He longed for such a weapon, with a longing that it would be hard to understand. The prize, therefore, was appreciated to its full value. He picked it up with an embarrassed grin, which quickly became natural when he turned it over in his hands and saw what an excellent piece it was.
“More than likely it belonged to a white man in the first place,” said Fred; “so it is right enough that it should come back to one of his own race.”
“It’s loaded,” said Terry, slightly raising the hammer and noticing the powder in the pan. Then he brought the gun to his shoulder and pointing it at the white trunk of the beech, which partly showed through the intervening branches and undergrowth, he said:
“If the spalpeen should peep out from behind that tree, I’m thinkin’ I could hit him a harder blow than when I landed me two fists on his mug.”
“The Winnebago is a long ways off,” said Deerfoot, with a shake of his head; “he may meet my brother some day, but it will not be in this place.”
The young Shawanoe having learned all that was to be learned about his young friends, now reached his hand in the breast of his hunting shirt and drew out a small, closely-printed Bible, from between the leaves of which he took a piece of paper that had been folded several times. He glanced at the superscription, as if to make sure it was right, and then handed it to Fred, who, as may be supposed, took it with astonishment. He recognized the penciled writing as that of his father.
Parting the folds, he read the following:
My Dear Fred:
You know that when we left home there were three of us, Hardin, Bowlby and myself. There are three of us still, but Bowlby considers himself of no account for some weeks to come, because of a hurt to his foot which will prevent his getting around for a long time. Such being the case, I have concluded, now that I have the chance, to send for you to join us. You are old enough and strong enough to make a full hand, and you can give us good help. Since we have all the animals, you will come afoot, but you will find no trouble in keeping to the trail, which has been traveled often enough to make it plain. It is no more than a hundred miles from Greville to our camp at the foot of the Ozark Mountains, so you ought to have no difficulty in reaching here in the course of three or four days. Love to your mother and Edith.
I send this by a young Shawanoe warrior, called Deerfoot. He is the most remarkable Indian I ever knew. I shall have a good deal to tell you about him when you reach here.
Your Father.
“Deerfoot bids his brothers good-by,” said the young Indian, offering his hand, when he saw Fred had finished reading his letter; “he hopes that he shall see them again.”
“It won’t be our fault if he doesn’t,” was the cordial response of Fred Linden, in which Terry heartily joined him. After a few more pleasant words they parted, Deerfoot following in the footsteps of the fleeing Winnebago, while the others moved to the northward in the direction of the creek. They turned aside a little from the direct course so as to hunt for Brindle, that Fred had seen, but she was not found. To their delight, however, they saw her footprints on the edge of the creek, proving that she had gone home with the directness of one who felt remorse for wandering from the straight path. She had swum the stream, and was doubtless before the MacClaskey cabin at that moment.
But standing close to the edge of the creek, the boys became aware of a hard fact: it had not only risen with great rapidity during the last half hour, so as to become a rushing torrent, but it was still rising so fast that
it was extremely dangerous for the boys to try to cross it in the canoe. Indeed, they hesitated to make the attempt, but finally concluded to do so.
CHAPTER VII
The Hunters of Ozark
I must tell you how it was that Deerfoot the Shawanoe came to bring the important letter of George Linden to his son Frederick.
It has already been stated that it was the custom of a party of hunters and trappers to leave the settlement of Greville in the autumn of each year and spend most of the cold weather among the streams at the foot of a certain part of the Ozark Mountains. At that period, the fur bearing animals abounded in the section, as they were found in hundreds of other portions of the vast area known under the general name of the Louisiana Territory. You must bear in mind that there were thousands of square miles that had not been trodden by a white man, and so sparse were the Indian villages that large portions of the country remained to be visited even by them.
Beaver, otter, foxes, bears, and buffaloes were the chief animals that were afterward driven west by the advancing tide of civilization, until the agents of the Missouri and Western Fur Companies were forced to do most of their work in the far west and north-west, where they came in collision with that vast monopoly known as the Hudson Bay Company, which, until recent years, not only trapped and hunted throughout Oregon, but along the Pacific coast as far south as California.
George Linden, Rufus Hardin and James Bowlby composed the party who, in the autumn of the year of which I am writing, rode each a horse a hundred miles to the south of the frontier settlement of Greville, and pitched their tent at the foot of the Ozark range. Beside the animals ridden, each hunter took a pack-horse to help bring back the peltries that were to be gathered during the cold weather. As a matter of course, they were provided with guns and plenty of munitions, and indeed with every necessity for their limited wants. They had spent several winters there and knew what was before them. They had hunted and trapped for years in other parts of the great west, and more than once had made the long journey to the post of St. Louis to dispose of their furs, a necessity that, as I have explained, was removed by the annual visit of the agents with their long train of pack-horses to gather up the peltries.
The Edward S. Ellis Megapack Page 225