The Edward S. Ellis Megapack

by Edward S. Ellis

  “We have enough left of our buffalo meat to furnish you a meal, Deerfoot, but you told us you had eaten only a little while ago.”

  “Deerfoot thanks his brothers, and will not eat until tomorrow.”

  “I suppose Mul-tal-la told you all about us?”

  “He has left little for you to tell. Deerfoot is glad to hear his brothers have been so well, but they have much to say that he would like to hear.”

  “O Deerfoot!” exclaimed Victor; “tell us how you got Whirlwind back. You must have had a pretty hard time, for you were gone a month.”

  The three seated themselves on the soft furs, George first throwing additional wood on the blaze, and the Shawanoe, knowing how interested his friends were, modestly related the story with which you became familiar long ago. The boys were so absorbed in the narration that they did not speak nor move until it was ended. He made light of the dangers and difficulties which he overcame, and it was plain to his listeners that he slurred over more than one of his most remarkable exploits.

  The brothers found it almost amusing to hear that the young Shawanoe had so wrenched one of his ankles that he could not use it for a time. It was so remarkable to learn that he had suffered from anything of that nature that they found it hard to associate the two. The manner in which Deerfoot stepped into the tent proved that he did not feel the slightest effects of the hurt. The Shawanoe told his friends that he and Mul-tal-la had purposely tarried outside the village until dark, because the newcomer did not care to have his arrival become known until the morrow. He wished to enjoy the first evening undisturbed with his old friends. Being on foot, with a blanket about his shoulders like Mul-tal-la and many other Blackfeet, he looked so much like one of them in the night that he attracted no notice, and Mul-tal-la promised to tell no one of the presence of the youth whom all were eager to see.

  It was not until late in the evening that the Shawanoe spoke of the theme that had troubled the brothers so long. Mul-tal-la had told him of the conversation with Taggarak, and he asked the boys to give their recollection, not omitting a word they could recall. Their friend listened gravely, and was silent when they had finished, his dark eyes fixed upon the fire in the middle of the lodge, as if his meditations had drifted beyond the time and place. After waiting for several minutes, Victor said:

  “Deerfoot, you can’t know how much we are worried. We understand how you feel and that no danger can scare you into denying the true religion, any more than it can scare George and me, but you may as well be careful and avoid rousing the anger of Taggarak, so long as there is no need of provoking him.”

  “What would my brothers have Deerfoot do?” gently asked, the Shawanoe.

  “We don’t know,” replied George. “Vic and I have talked about this a hundred times since our call on the chief, and we are puzzled as well as worried.”

  “Are my brothers ready to die for the religion?”

  “We are, and will prove it if it ever becomes necessary; but,” added Victor, “we don’t see the need of dying when there isn’t any need of it.”

  This original bit of philosophy caused Deerfoot to turn and look with a half-serious expression into the face of Victor.

  “How great is the wisdom of my brother! Who taught him such things?”

  Then assuming a graver countenance, but gazing steadily at his friend, he added:

  “There was One who died on the cross for you and Deerfoot.”

  There was a world of meaning in these words, and they fitly closed the conversation for the night. All lay down soon after and slept until morning.

  The snow ceased falling, and only a thin coating lay on the ground at daylight. An unusual moderation in the temperature carried this away before nightfall, and the weather became almost spring-like, or rather resembled the lingering days of Indian summer, which are the expiring gasp of the mild season, soon to be followed by the biting rigors of winter.

  Before noon it was known throughout the Blackfoot village that the remarkable young Shawanoe had arrived. The excitement was greater than that caused by the coming of Victor and George Shelton, and for a time Deerfoot was seriously annoyed, but he strove to bear it with the sensible philosophy of his nature. Those who saw him as he moved here and there with the boys, or Mul-tal-la, or Spink and Jiggers, had to admit the truth of the assertion heard many times; he was the most prepossessing young warrior upon whom any of them had ever looked. Neither among the Blackfeet nor any of their neighboring tribes had so comely a youth been seen. And this being the fact, many were more unwilling than before to believe he was so powerful, so active, so fleet of foot and so athletic as had been claimed. This doubt was not lessened by the conduct of Deerfoot himself. He soon became acquainted with nearly everyone in the village, and went upon hunting expeditions with them, but displayed no more skill than most of his companions. He avoided all trials of speed, though often invited to take part by the doubters. In crossing the river in a canoe with two of his new acquaintances, he swung a paddle, while each of them did the same. The Blackfeet saw no evidence of skill superior to theirs, because in truth none was displayed. He was urged to take part in their games, but made excuse to act only as spectator. He did not wish to become a competitor and deceive the others by not doing his best. His modesty led him to shrink from exhibiting his abilities. Moreover, he had a feeling that it savored of ingratitude or lack of appreciation of the hospitality he was receiving to place himself at the fore, as he knew he could readily do.

  But it had to come. Too many boasts had been made by the friends of Deerfoot for the envious Blackfeet to allow the Shawanoe to rest upon such laurels. Neither Mul-tal-la nor the brothers would abate one bit of their claims. Deerfoot would have stopped them had not the mischief, as he viewed it, been done before his coming. He could only remain mute and hope the matter would die out of itself. But that was impossible.

  The most noted test of athletic skill that ever occurred in the history of the Blackfeet tribe took place one bright, keen, sunshiny afternoon on the bleak plain at the rear of the village. A week had been spent in making the preparations as thorough as they could be made. Runners came from three of the other villages, and they were the flower of the tribe—lithe, sinewy, swift and splendid specimens of manly beauty, symmetry and grace. Each was worthy of being called a champion, and all were confident of lowering the colors of the dusky stranger from the land of the rising sun, who had been presumptuous enough to be persuaded to enter a trial that must disgrace him. More than one believed that in his chagrin the Shawanoe would hasten from the village and never more be seen in that part of the world.

  Now, it would be interesting to tell all about this memorable tournament, but you have no more doubt of the result than did the victor from the moment he consented to enter into it. Mul-tal-la and the Shelton brothers, including Spink and Jiggers, impressed upon the Shawanoe the necessity of his doing his best, no matter what the nature of the struggle might be. He promised to follow their counsel, as he did that of Simon Kenton at the foot race at Woodvale the year before.

  Five contestants entered against Deerfoot. The distance was about two hundred yards. Never before was the Shawanoe pitted against such fleet runners, but he finished the struggle fifty feet in front of the foremost. The spectators, as well as the defeated runners themselves, were dazed, and could hardly credit their own senses.

  Not less crushing were Deerfoot’s victories in the running, the standing and the high jump. Like all great athletes, his triumphs seemed to be won without calling upon his reserve capacity, and therefore with much less apparent effort than shown by his rivals. In firing at a target, he left the few marksmen of the tribe hopelessly out of sight. Then he borrowed Mul-tal-la’s bow, and every arrow that he launched went farther and truer than any other. Altogether it was a great day for Deerfoot the Shawanoe.

  CHAPTER XV

  The Spirit Circle

  Never in all their lives were the Shelton brothers prouder of Deerfoot the Shawanoe than wh
en they saw him utterly defeat the finest athletes of the Blackfoot tribe. The youth had done his best, as he was urged to do, and his triumph was too overwhelming for anyone to question it. He had been pitted against the very flower of that powerful people, who at that time numbered between three and four thousand souls. The pick of the runners and marksmen had come from the other villages, and every one was decisively vanquished.

  The delight of Mul-tal-la and of Spink and Jiggers was hardly less than that of the boys. Mul-tal-la knew the Shawanoe would win, while the other two Blackfeet merely believed it, for they had never been intimately associated with the champion of champions, and only remembered what Mul-tal-la told them he had witnessed.

  Human nature is the same the world over, and among the defeated ones was a feeling of envy and resentment toward the young warrior who belonged to another tribe, and who, after coming many hundreds of miles, had put them all to shame. This was to be expected, and it caused no uneasiness to Deerfoot, who had faced it many times among his own race as well as on the part of white people.

  But the Shawanoe took little or no pleasure in his victory. He had entered into the contest because he could not help it. Had he reached the village at the same time with his friends, he would have sternly forbidden any reference to his brilliant physical powers, and thus prevented the tournament that was so distasteful to him; but, as I have shown, the mischief was done before he came upon the scene. His reputation had been proclaimed, and naught remained but to prove that only the simple truth had been told of him.

  That evening the four friends who had spent so many days and nights together were gathered in the lodge at the northern end of the village. Time had been given for the excitement to die out. Three of the defeated champions were well on their way to their own village, when, had the result been different, they would have staid for several days in what may be considered the Blackfoot capital. The hum and murmur of voices and the restless moving to and fro were audible outside, but the old companions were left to themselves. Mul-tal-la had succeeded in impressing upon his countrymen that when their guests retired to their tepee they were not to be intruded upon.

  The fire was burning in the middle of the primitive home, and George and Victor Shelton and Mul-tal-la were seated on the furs that were spread along three sides of the apartment. Deerfoot sat by himself, removed from all. He was partly reclining on one elbow and gazing into the fire, as if sunk in meditation. The boys knew the meaning of his attitude and air; he was dissatisfied with what had occurred that day.

  “By gracious!” said Victor; “if I could do what you did, Deerfoot, I’d be so proud I wouldn’t speak to George or Mul-tal-la or you; and yet you don’t seem to feel a bit stuck up. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

  The Shawanoe made no reply, but continued gazing into the fire, as if he did not hear the words. George added:

  “Your victory will be talked about among all the Blackfoot villages, and the children of today will tell their children about it long after we are gone.”

  Mul-tal-la kept glancing at Deerfoot with an admiring, affectionate expression, and, noting his continued silence, he said in a gentle voice:

  “The Blackfeet did not think Mul-tal-la spoke with a single tongue; they said his words were lies, but they do not say so now.”

  “I didn’t see anything of Taggarak,” added Victor. “I looked around for him after the battle was won. Why did he stay away?”

  Deerfoot for the first time noted what was said. He lifted his head from his elbow and sat upright.

  “Taggarak was there; Deerfoot saw him,” he quietly remarked.

  “Yes; Mul-tal-la passed near him. The chief kept by himself and spoke to no one. He was on the side nearest the wood. Just before the last race was won he turned away and went back to his lodge.”

  “What was the meaning of that?” asked the Shawanoe. “Is he displeased with the defeat of his young men?”

  “It is the other way; he is glad their conceit has been checked. The Blackfeet are great boasters, and he has reproved them many times. Mul-tal-la saw him smile when Deerfoot came home many paces in front of that tall warrior, who is the greatest boaster of them all. Taggarak was glad when he was defeated.”

  “It pleases us more than we can tell to know that Deerfoot has won the good-will of the war chief,” observed George Shelton, who could not forget that ominous conversation they had had some time before with Taggarak. “It will make our stay more pleasant than I believed it would be.”

  The observant Victor noticed that Mul-tal-la gave no reply to this remark, which had been made in the hope of being confirmed by the Blackfoot. The latter glanced at the Shawanoe, whose eyes again rested upon the fire. George threw a couple of sticks in the blaze and then resumed his seat beside his brother. When the stillness was becoming oppressive, Mul-tal-la startled all three of his listeners by what was certainly a remarkable question:

  “Is Deerfoot afraid of any man?”

  Even the Shawanoe flashed a surprised look upon the Blackfoot.

  “Why does my brother ask Deerfoot that?”

  “He shall soon know. Will Deerfoot answer Mul-tal-la?”

  The question seemed to rouse the Shawanoe, who spoke with more animation than he had shown since the group had come together for the evening.

  “No; Deerfoot fears no man that lives! God has given him more power and skill than he deserves. He has never denied protection to Deerfoot. He has told him to do right, and Deerfoot tries to obey His will. When He thinks the time has come for Deerfoot to go to Him, Deerfoot will be ready and will be glad. Deerfoot knows He is not pleased with such things as took place today. What is it for one man to run faster or shoot straighter than another? No credit belongs to him, for it is God who gives him the power. Deerfoot would sin if he shrank from any task laid upon him; but a victory like that just won does no one any good. Deerfoot would be happier if he could turn the thoughts of all those people to the true God.”

  In the warmth of his feelings the Shawanoe had wandered from the question just asked him, but in doing so he revealed the nobility of his nature. He was oppressed by the belief that the strife in which he had been the victor not only accomplished no real good, but actually retarded the work he had in mind. He came back to the question his friend had just asked.

  “Why does my brother think Deerfoot is afraid of any man?”

  Mul-tal-la could not hide a certain nervousness, but with all the calmness he could summon he parried the direct question by the remark:

  “The most terrible warrior of all the Blackfeet is Taggarak the chieftain; he has slain many men in battle and has never been conquered.”

  The inference from this remark was obvious even to the boys. It was Victor who asked in surprise:

  “Is Deerfoot to fight with Taggarak? If he does, I’ll bet on Deerfoot.”

  To any others except those present the words of the Shawanoe would have sounded like boasting, but there was no such thought in his heart.

  “Deerfoot has no more fear of Taggarak than he has of a pappoose. He may be a great warrior, but Deerfoot has conquered as great warriors as he.”

  Determined that Mul-tal-la should parry no longer, the Shawanoe forced him to a direct answer.

  “Why does my brother think Taggarak wishes to fight him?”

  The reply was astonishing:

  “The squaw of Taggarak is seeking to learn of the God that she has been told is known to the Shawanoe. She has asked me, she has asked Kepkapkolakak and Borabtrik (the messengers known as ‘Spink’ and ‘Jiggers’). She does not sleep because of her heaviness of mind.”

  “Does Taggarak know of this?” asked the surprised Deerfoot.

  “Not yet; but it must soon come to his knowledge.”

  “Will he harm his wife?”

  “Mul-tal-la cannot say; he may put her to death. There is no doubt that he will slay Deerfoot—if he can,” added the Blackfoot significantly, “or he will make him walk around the Spirit Ci
rcle till he drops dead.”

  Deerfoot stared in astonishment. He was mystified.

  “The Spirit Circle,” he repeated. “Does Deerfoot hear aright? If so, what does his brother mean? Deerfoot is listening.”

  Thus appealed to, the Blackfoot was silent for a minute, as if gathering his thoughts. He looked up at the opening in the roof of the lodge, then into the fire, and, addressing the three, repeated the following myth or legend, which has been extant among the Blackfeet Indians from time immemorial:

  “Many, many moons ago, long before the parents of our oldest men were born, a chieftain as great as Taggarak ruled the Blackfeet. His fame reached far to the north, to the east, to the south and to the west, beyond the Stony Mountains, to the shore of the great water, for there was none like him. In those far-away days the home of Wahla, chieftain of the Blackfeet, was to the south of this village, on the banks of the Two Rivers.

  “Wahla had a daughter who was the most beauteous maiden that warrior ever looked upon. She was loving and dainty, and the idol of the stern old warrior, who would have cut off his right hand rather than have the slightest harm come to her. Never did father love daughter more than Chief Wahla loved Mita the Rose of the Forest.

  “Wahla returned one day from a fierce battle with the Cheyennes. A great victory had been won, and the Blackfeet brought home a score of prisoners, that they might be tied to the stake and burned while their captives made merry over their sufferings. This was the custom of the Blackfeet, and they have not yet forgotten such amusements.

  “Among the captives was a manly youth, who was proud and brave, and had slain three of the Blackfeet and wounded Wahla himself before they made him prisoner. He scorned to ask mercy, which would have been denied him, and, without a tremor of limb or a dimming of his bright eyes, awaited the cruel death that he knew had been prepared for him and his comrades.