The Edward S. Ellis Megapack

by Edward S. Ellis

  There is something in magnetism, and Deerfoot was sure of a slight cessation of the pain, though the relief was not marked. When the caressing had been repeated a number of times, the dwarf softly laid the foot on the ground and rose to his feet. Another vigorous discharge of unintelligible words followed, and he wabbled rapidly off beyond the rocks from behind which he had come a short time before.

  Since he left his bow lying on the ground where he had flung it, Deerfoot knew he had gone in quest of some remedy and would soon return. He therefore kept his seat on the ground and patiently awaited the other’s coming.

  In a few minutes the dwarf reappeared, bearing in his hand a bunch of green leaves. The twigs were pinnated, and at the base of each leaflet, where it joined the common peticle, was a single crimson berry, resembling the common wintergreen, but the genus was unknown to the Shawanoe, though he knew something of medicinal herbs.

  Dividing the twigs with their leaves and berries into halves, the good Samaritan laid one pile on the ground, pointing to it, and still chattering. Deerfoot knew he wished to direct his attention to the healing plant, and he nodded his head to signify he understood and would remember his request.

  Then, as deftly as a girl, the dusky friend picked the berries from the twigs in the other bunch. They filled the palm of one hand, which he held out for Deerfoot to inspect. The Shawanoe nodded again. The other wabbled back to the rocks, but did not pass out of sight. Picking up a bit of stone, he began crushing the berries upon a projection of the rocks. It took but a brief time to turn them into a yellow, sticky mass which emitted a slightly aromatic odor. Returning to the patient, he skillfully spread the poultice on several of the larger leaves, laid them over and around the swollen ankle, and then, as gently as a mother with her babe, drew the stocking over it, so as to hold the poultice in place.

  Deerfoot leaned back, resting his body on his elbows, and heaved a long, grateful sigh. The relief was bliss itself. For a minute or two he believed the injury was fully healed, but a slight movement of the foot proved that this was not the fact. Nevertheless, the effect of the crushed berries was magical. As he looked up in the homely, twisted countenance, his expression spoke his gratitude. The dwarf grinned. The language of thankfulness needs no interpreter. Deerfoot came to the upright posture, and, reaching forward, took one of the stranger’s hands in his own and patted it, murmuring his thanks.

  The dwarf pointed to the twigs and berries remaining untouched and said something, which was made clear by the rapid flitting of his forefinger from them to the wounded member. The meaning was plain. The patient was to use them as the others had been used. Deerfoot signified in his usual way that he understood the direction.

  The dwarf stood for a few minutes silent, with his eyes on the face of the Shawanoe seated before him. Then he spoke again, and Deerfoot would have given much to have understood the words, but he could not form the remotest idea of their meaning. The visitor stopped and picked up his bow from the ground, turned and swung with his awkward gait up the slight slope, passed from sight behind the pile of rocks, and the Shawanoe never saw or heard of him again.

  CHAPTER IX

  In the Rockies

  There was wonderful virtue in the remedy used by the dwarf Indian. You and I know that in many a mountaineer’s cabin and barbarian’s wigwam are found curatives which surpass anything known to what we call medical science. The proofs of this fact are too numerous to be questioned.

  As Deerfoot rode away with Whirlwind on a walk, he knew his hurt had been greatly benefited. With his foot hanging, the flow of blood downward tended to increase the pain, but there was not only less of it than at any time since his mishap, but it was perceptibly decreasing. The swelling was going down, for the stocking was becoming looser. He timidly tapped the ribs of the stallion with his heel and was delighted to find it caused less of a twinge than he expected.

  At the first water he paused, but would not allow Whirlwind to kneel to help him dismount. He let himself down rather gingerly and did not suffer therefrom. At the side of the little stream he examined his injury. The swelling was markedly less and he was able to press it without wincing. He had brought away the surplus berries, but, instead of using them, moistened the old binding and replaced it. It might be that he would not be able to find more of the remedy, and it was prudent to husband the supply. Observant as he was, he did not recall ever having seen the shrub growing, and was certain it was not found in Ohio or Kentucky.

  One potent factor in the rapid recovery of the Shawanoe must not be overlooked; that was his own superb health and condition. You need not be reminded that when anything goes amiss with us physically, nature sets to work at once to right it, and the most that medical skill can do is to sit by and watch for contingencies and give assistance as opportunity offers, which is less frequent than many think. A system that has not been weakened by dissipation or the violation of the laws of health will do wonders in the way of repairing disease or injury.

  It was not yet noon when Deerfoot became so hopeful and curious that he suddenly slipped from the back of his horse without checking his walk. Whirlwind must have been startled, for he instantly stopped and turned his head to learn what it meant.

  “Don’t worry,” said his master with his familiar chuckle. “Deerfoot is almost well and will soon be himself again.”

  He ventured to bear a part of his weight on the weak leg. It caused a twinge, and he instantly shifted to the other foot, but with the transference of weight the pain departed, which was one of the best of signs.

  The days of miracles passed long ago, and with all the virtues that may linger in the Thomsonian system of medicine, no possibility existed of the Shawanoe regaining the full use of his limb for several days to come. None the less, his recovery was astonishingly rapid, for, as I have said, his perfect vigor and healthfulness of body greatly aided in such recovery. Added to this was the intelligence he used. While he frequently tested and experimented with the injury, he did not venture too far. Now and then he carefully shifted a part of his weight to his left limb, then he hobbled a few steps, but stopped immediately at the first warning twinge. It may be said he encouraged the ankle to do its best to get well.

  It was a little past meridian when he reached a place which showed a considerable growth of grass, and letting himself down to the ground, he told Whirlwind to attend to his own dinner. As for himself, he preferred to wait until nightfall, or the next day. At present all his attention was given to his hurt.

  He decided, after inspecting the bandage, to replace it with a new one. He therefore flung the old one aside and mashed the berries and applied them as the dwarf had done. But the injured limb had so decreased in size that the stocking failed to hold it in place. The motion of the horse caused the bandage to slip over the foot. This was remedied by taking some of the threads of fringe from the skirt of his hunting shirt and tying them round the poultice. He expected the increased pressure to hurt, but to his pleased surprise the opposite effect resulted.

  It had been in his mind to construct a crude crutch to aid in hobbling around, but he decided not to do so. If his recovery continued without relapse he could do well enough without such aid.

  On the journey from the Ohio to the Pacific, as well as during their intimacy in the new State, Deerfoot and Mul-tal-la had talked so much about the home of the latter that the Shawanoe felt himself well informed. A hundred years ago that tribe numbered several thousand, and they lived in villages, some of which were long distances from one another. The country over which they roamed covered thousands of square miles of mountain, prairie and stream. Mul-tal-la described his own village as consisting of more than a hundred lodges, located near the middle of the Blackfoot territory. The tepees were strung along the eastern bank of a stream of considerable size, and was the dwelling-place of Taggarak, the most famous of the Blackfoot war chiefs and the head of the other sachems, most of whom lived in different villages. Deerfoot had formed so clear a picture in hi
s own mind that he believed he could identify the Indian town at first sight, though it might be its resemblance to others would prevent such recognition.

  The Blackfoot country lies to the east of the Rocky Mountains, while he was on the west of the stupendous range. It was necessary, therefore, to make his way through and over the backbone of the continent, in order to rejoin his friends. Inasmuch as the land of the Assiniboines was not only farther east, but many leagues to the northward, it will be understood that the party that had tried to run off Whirlwind had ventured on a most extensive raid, which brought them no reward except that of having slain several of Chief Amokeat’s Nez Perces.

  A requirement for getting through the mountains was an avenue, since the passage could be effected in no other way except by flying, and Deerfoot was not yet ready to try that means.

  Using all the woodcraft of which he was master, he spent the remainder of the day in searching for such a pass. He scanned every part of his field of vision, but the day was drawing to a close before anything like success came to him. He had learned that the warriors to the east and west of the Rockies made journeys now and then back and forth. Sometimes these were raiding expeditions, at other times were merely rambles or visits, when the red men proved themselves capable of hospitality and friendship.

  These people must be acquainted with the readiest means of travel, and wherever they walked or rode they left inevitable signs to guide others. The sun was still two hours above the horizon when Deerfoot came upon a plainly marked trail, leading almost due east and west. Without hesitation he turned into it. Instead of being a comparatively narrow passage, however, like that traversed by Mul-tal-la and George and Victor Shelton when they thought they were embroiled with the Shoshones, it was two or three miles wide, and even wider in some places. The ground was so depressed that it partook of the nature of a valley, through the middle of which a considerable stream of water had flowed, fed no doubt, as was the rule, by the melting snows and ice of the mountains.

  The surface of this pass varied greatly. There were portions where boulders, rocks and ravines seemed to bar all progress, but these obstructions, upon a closer approach, revealed passages which could be easily traversed by horse or animal. Then came long stretches of fairly level land, where grass, trees and shrubbery were abundant. The mountains towered on the right and left, and now and then directly in front, some of the peaks piercing the sky far above the snow line.

  Deerfoot would not have dared to attempt this passage but for the proofs that it had been traversed before by others. In fact, shortly after he made the change of direction he came upon a spot where a large party had encamped not long previous. It was too early in the day to halt for the night, and he allowed the stallion to pass on.

  An hour later, when casting about for a suitable camping site, he descried an Indian party not far in advance, but a fourth of a mile to the left. While they were using the same pass with himself, they were traversing another portion and pursuing the same direction as he.

  Not convinced that it was well to seek their company, the Shawanoe brought his glass to bear and surveyed the motley group that were straggling eastward. The sight was interesting even to him, for the Indians were composed of warriors, squaws, children and pappooses, evidently migrating to a new home. They had eight or ten scraggly ponies, each walking between two poles that served as shafts and extended so far to the rear that they dragged on the ground. Thus they served as runners or crude sleds. Held in place by thongs and crosspieces, the primitive wagon gave a resting place for tired squaws and children, their lazy husbands, or the furs and luggage of the party. The primitive contrivances left a peculiar trail.

  The Indians numbered perhaps fifty or three score, and had nothing attractive in their slouching, untidy appearance, which suggested so many dusky tramps on their way to quarters that offered a better opportunity for begging. Deerfoot had no wish to gain a closer acquaintance and kept well to the south, so as to be sure of passing without mingling with the company. As the ground was favorable he put Whirlwind at a moderate gallop.

  The dusky strangers showed their keenness of vision by observing the stranger almost as soon as he descried them. He saw several of the warriors who were on foot point toward him. They seemed to expect Deerfoot to come forward, but, when he did not do so, showed no further interest in him.

  The wish to keep clear of the uninviting throng caused the youth to ride on until the gathering gloom told him night was at hand. He then saw he had come to another place that had served as a camp for those who had traveled the way before him. There were the little stream of icy water, the rank grass, the scattered undergrowth and the boulders and rocks of every size and variety.

  The air was so chilly that Deerfoot began gathering wood for a fire, though he had nothing in the nature of food for an evening meal. I have shown, however, that that was a matter of small account to him. There was more than enough for Whirlwind, who, leaving his master to himself, began edging up the pass, cropping the choicest grass on the way. The Shawanoe had to grope in many places before he collected enough fuel. He heaped a part against the cold bare face of the rock, several paces from the winding brook, whose waters were not only clear, but of the temperature of ice itself.

  With his usual deftness, Deerfoot soon had the fire blazing. He had not seen living man or animal since his sight of the migrating Indians, and he did not think it likely he would meet any before morning. The past day and night had been so stirring that the present rest was grateful. He assumed an easy posture, half reclining on his blanket, and, supporting the upper part of his body on one elbow, he drew out his Bible and held it so that the firelight fell on the printed page.

  He read for a full hour. Many of the passages were familiar to him, and he could repeat them—as he often did when riding or walking alone—without glancing within the volume. He read some of the chapters a second and third time, dwelling on certain verses, as if to make sure he lost nothing of their wonderful significance and beauty. Finally, he closed the book and placed it back in its usual resting place.

  The fire was sinking and he flung more wood on the blaze. Then moving beyond the circle of light, he gathered his blanket about his shoulders, and, finding his ankle free from pain, leaned back against the face of the rock and gave himself over to meditation upon the fascinating and yet awesome mysteries of the Word and of the Author of them all.

  Everything favored the sweet, solemn reverie. He was utterly alone, so far as any of his kind was concerned. He could hear the soft impact of Whirlwind’s hoof now and then as he shifted his position and continued nibbling the grass. The night wind sighed around the massive rock, fanning the blaze, and sometimes rising to a moan as it careered upward and swirled about the stupendous peaks towering near at hand. Far aloft he caught the faint honk of the wild geese hurrying southward from the Arctic winter that would soon lock the world in its rigid fetters. The dismal howl of a mountain wolf sounded far off in the solitude and seemed to linger tremblingly in the air. The silence was all the more impressive because of these disturbances which belonged to the time and place.

  Leaning back against the rugged rock, in which a slight warmth was perceptible from the contact farther away with the blaze, Deerfoot’s thoughts drifted to other places, scenes and persons. He recalled his rambles with Ned Preston, Jo Springer, Jim Turner and the quaint negro youth known as “Blossom,” when all passed through many stirring experiences, as you learned long since in the “Boy Pioneer Series;” and of Jack Carleton and Otto Relstaub in the “Log Cabin” stories. Fred Linden and Terry Clark were to come later.

  Deerfoot had known many men who later gained a place in history. You will recall the high esteem in which he was held by General W. H. Harrison, Governor of Indiana Territory, and afterward President of the United States. It was he who declared, when a Senator in Washington, that he looked upon the young Shawanoe as the greatest Indian in many respects that ever lived, with natural abilities superior to t
hose of the renowned Tecumseh, who, nevertheless, holds the most exalted position in the estimate of those that came after him.

  Daniel Boone, the renowned pioneer, regarded the youth highly, while Simon Kenton, himself one of the best judges of men, was as unstinted in his praise as Governor Harrison. The acceptance of Christianity by this remarkable youth shut out forever the political fame and power that he would have assuredly won had he refused the true faith and been an Indian in his traits, tastes and ambitions. But the sweet, soul-satisfying happiness that was always his he would not have exchanged for the highest honors the world can give.

  The musings of Deerfoot took a daintier, softer, tenderer tint. His thoughts flew across the thousands of miles of forest, river, mountain and prairie to one whose image was never absent from his heart, and whom he hoped to see again and all in good time call wife. He talked to none of her, for the theme was too sacred to be shared with another, but next to his religion it was the sweetest, dearest consolation of his life.

  “In the rainbow-tinted forest,

  Where the sleepy waters flow,—

  Roamed I with a dark-haired maiden,

  In an autumn long ago;

  And her dimpled hand was resting

  Timidly within mine own,

  And her voice to mine replying,

  In a whispered undertone.”

  CHAPTER X.

  IN THE BLACKFOOT COUNTRY.

  One keen, sunny afternoon in autumn, a certain Indian youth executed a war dance among the foothills to the east of the Rocky Mountains. The only spectator of the fantastic performance was a superb black stallion, who, so far as can be judged, found a good deal of entertainment in the sight. It was long before the days of kodaks and their snapshots, which add so much to our enjoyment of everyday incidents.