The Hunters of the Ozark by Edward Sylvester Ellis (ready to read books .TXT) 📖

afterward by a person, who as yet has not been introduced to the reader, but who, when he does appear, will be admitted to be the best judge. I allude to Deerfoot the Shawanoe.

The Indian with the cow-bell was a Winnebago warrior, whose home was a long ways to the northward, but who had gone thither in company with several others on what may be called a tour of investigation. The driving off of the cow was probably an inspiration of the moment. The Indians kept her until they had got all the milk they wanted, first removing the bell so that her friends could not recover her until they were through. The stratagem which I have been describing was an afterthought. None of the Winnebagos except the one who tried the plan would have any thing to do with it, though they were willing enough that every white person in the settlement of Greville should perish, if the same could be brought about without risk to them.

Left to himself, the Winnebago decided to make a prisoner of whomsoever should be sent to find the cow. He had reason to believe that this person would be a youth, and since every thing was so quiet in that section, he was not likely to be armed. Hence, it would be an easy matter to decoy him a goodly distance from the settlement, when the warrior could pounce upon, make him a prisoner and compel him to go with him. After the couple were far enough from the settlement the lad could be put to death, if his captor or the party to which the captor belonged, should so elect.

Terry Clark had stood behind the sheltering tree for perhaps five minutes, when he became aware of an alarming fact: the warrior with the bell was slowly approaching him. The faint tinkle that it gave out once or twice told this, and when finally the lad ventured to peep around the side of the tree, the sight was a startling one. The Indian had risen almost to the upright posture, and holding the gun and bell as described, was moving directly toward the oak behind which the boy stood. Moreover at the moment the latter took the cautious look, the visage of the Indian showed that he was looking straight at the tree.

"By the powers!" gasped Terry, "but the spalpeen observed me, and I'm thinkin' that he saw me before I did him."

It was not at all unlikely that such was the case. The Indian may have felt sure of his victim, and so he indulged in a little by-play, as a cat often does with a mouse. Such a cruel proceeding was characteristic of his race.

The belief that this was the case placed Terry Clark in a most trying position. He was without the means with which to defend himself, and in fact was hopeless. It was useless to try to run away, for if the warrior could not overtake him at once, he could bring him down with his rifle.

You know how rare a thing it is for an Irishman to submit meekly, even when there is no hope in resistance. Terry muttered:

"If he lays hands on me, there's going to be a fight; I wish Fred was near, that he could see that I git fair play."

No person could have been more in earnest than was the Irish lad.

"I'll wait till his head comes round the corner of that tree and then I'll give him a whack that'll tumble him over on his back, afore he knows what's the matter wid him; then I'll amuse myself wid hammerin' him after he is down till I git tired and then I'll take his gun and knife and tomahawk and the bell and make him walk before me to the sittlement."

The lad had just gone over in his mind this roseate programme, when a soft tinkle told him that the Winnebago was within a few steps of the tree; and at the same moment that the youth made this interesting discovery, another still more astonishing one broke upon him.

Just fifty feet away and behind a trunk very similar to the one that sheltered the lad, stood a second Indian warrior. His position was such that he was in plain view of Terry, though the Winnebago could not see him except when the latter should approach quite close to the shelter of the boy. The strange Indian was closely watching the hostile one, and, with that remarkable intuition that sometimes comes to a person in grave crises, Terry was convinced that he was an enemy of the Winnebago, though whether a friend of the youth was not so certain.

In his amazement, the lad for the moment forgot his own danger and gave his attention to the stranger, who was the most striking looking warrior he had ever seen. He seemed to be about eighteen or twenty years of age, and was the picture of manly grace and beauty.

He had long, luxuriant black hair which hung about his shoulders, being gathered by a loose band at the neck, so as to keep it from getting in front of his eyes. In the crown of this natural covering were thrust three stained eagle feathers, while there were two rows of colored beads around the neck. The fringed hunting shirt which reached almost to his knees was of a dull, yellow color and the sash or belt around the waist was of a dark red. A small but handsome bracelet encircled his left wrist, and the fringes of his leggins were of varied and brilliant hues, as were the beaded moccasins that incased his shapely feet. A tomahawk and knife were in his girdle, while he held a finely ornamented rifle in his right hand, the manner in which he manipulated the weapon showing that he was left-handed.

The face was strikingly fine, the nose being slightly aquiline, the cheek bones less prominent, and the whole contour more symmetrical than is generally the case with his race. There was something in the situation that evidently amused him, for Terry saw him smile so unmistakably that he noticed his small and regular white teeth.

It was plain that he was watching the movements of the Winnebago, though he said nothing, and made no gesture to the lad, whose wondering look he must have understood. Be that as it may, the sight of the strange Indian, and the belief that he was an enemy of the other with the cow-bell, inspired the Irish lad with a courage that he would not have known had the other warrior been absent.

"He's waiting to see how I condooct mesilf when the spalpeen lays hands on me," thought Terence; "he won't have to wait long."

The youth was right. The crouching Winnebago, doubtless feeling that he had no immediate use for the bell that had served him so well, dropped it to the ground beside him, and holding only his rifle in hand, stepped forward with the same cat-like tread that had marked his advance from the first. He knew that his victim was shrinking behind the trunk of the oak, and he was having his own peculiar sport with him.

So intense was the attention of Terry that he heard distinctly the footsteps of the warrior, who a moment later was close enough to touch the tree with his hand, had he been so minded.


CHAPTER V.

A FRIEND IN NEED.

Terry Clark, the Irish lad, placed his right foot behind the left, his weight equally supported on both, and stood as rigid as iron, with both fists clinched and half raised, in the attitude of one holding himself ready to use nature's weapons to his utmost ability.

He heard the soft moccasin press the layer of brown autumn leaves, and the next moment the point of a knobby, painted nose came slowly in sight around the side of the trunk, followed by the sloping forehead, the hideous face and the shoulders of the warrior, whose right hand was held so far to the rear with the gun that it was the last to come into view.

As the Winnebago caught sight of the white-faced boy, his countenance was disfigured by a grin that made it more repulsive than before.

"Oogh! brudder!--oogh!--Yenghese--"

Just then Terry Clark let fly. He was a lusty lad, and he landed both fists, one after another, squarely in the painted face, with such force that the warrior was knocked completely off his feet. He went over backward as though from the kick of a horse; but, contrary to the hopes of his assailant, he did not let go of his gun. Had he done so, the youth would have caught it up and shot him before he could regain his feet.

The blow was most presumptuous, and would have insured the death of the one who gave it but for the intervention of the second Indian, who seemed to take but a couple of bounds from the tree near which he was standing when he landed on the spot. The infuriated Winnebago was in the act of clambering to his feet, when he caught sight of the lithe, graceful warrior, standing only a couple of steps away, with loaded rifle pointed at him.

"Dog of a Winnebago," he said in a voice slightly above an ordinary tone; "if he harms the pale face, he shall die!"

There are some expressions so forcible that they can not be made more so. The young Indian spoke in the lingo of the Winnebago, whose totem he had recognized, but his posture, erect on his feet, with his cocked rifle in such a position that he had only to pull the trigger to send the bullet through the bronzed skull before him;--all this required no words of explanation. The Winnebago grasped the situation, and, to use the homely expression common at this day, he saw that the other "had the drop" on him.

The Indian, though larger, older, heavier and stronger, was taken at such disadvantage that he ceased his effort to rise, and looked up at his conqueror with a helplessness so grotesque that under other circumstances it would have caused a smile. Indeed, Terry Clark did indulge in a slight laugh, for he saw that it was safe to do so; the Winnebago was on the ground before his master.

"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