Straining every muscle in order to get away, Colter suddenly felt the blood gushing from his nose, and knew that a slight hemorrhage had been occasioned by his efforts. He was but a mile from the river, and, again looking back, saw the Indian within twenty yards of him. Escape was now impossible. Turning swiftly around,—he stood absolutely still and opened his arms.
The red man was astounded at this unexpected action, and, in endeavoring to check his headway, fell to the ground. The lance, meanwhile, flew from his hand and stuck into the earth a considerable distance from him, where it broke off. Luck was with the half-winded man of the plains, who now turned about, seized the broken spear-head, and darted swiftly to the side of the prostrate red man.
The trapper aimed the sharp lance at the Indian, and drove it into him with such force that he was pinned to the earth. A deep groan came from the helpless brave, as the backwoodsman again turned to run towards the river, although he was now exhausted by loss of blood and by the terrible race for life. His pursuers were still far behind, and he reached Jefferson’s Fork so far ahead of them that they could not see him. One spring—he had leaped into the water—and was swimming towards a little island about a hundred yards from the bank.
Upon the edge of this had lodged a clump of sticks and floating brush. Colter made for it and dove beneath the tangled mass; emerging somewhere in its centre, with his head between two giant logs. Breathing with great difficulty, and faint from his exhausting run, he waited with throbbing heart for the red men to arrive. This they did very shortly.
They had stopped beside the body of their comrade and found that he was in his death-agony. Infuriated by this, and with terrific yells, they again set out in pursuit of Colter, who heard their vindictive screeching as they reached the bank. Some of them swam out to the island and punched about in the drift with their spears. As they did so, the trapper drew down in the water so that only his nose was exposed. He remained thus for about half an hour, when the redskins gave up their search and returned to the body of the fallen chieftain. Colter feared that they might set fire to the drift, but this idea did not seem to have entered the minds of the Blackfeet, who began a hideous wailing as they gathered around their leader. Carrying him upon their shoulders, they started back to their camp, and gradually their wild lamentations died away in the shadows of the forest.
The trapper was in a desperate predicament, for he was without either clothes or rifle. His feet had been lacerated by the stones and plants so that he could walk only with difficulty, and his body was chilled by his long immersion in the cold waters of the river. Certainly there was no brilliant prospect before him, for he was miles from any settlement. Would you not think that he would have become absolutely disheartened and would have given up in despair?
Not so with this bold follower of Lewis and Clark. After a day’s rest and a meal of berries, grass and stalks from a shrub known as the sheep sorrel, he started for Lisa’s Fort on the Yellowstone, a distance of a week’s hard journey. Fortune favored this man of iron. Toads, frogs, and insects became his food, and with clothing of bark and reeds he finally reached the hospitable shelter of Manuel Lisa’s trading station. He was scarcely recognizable.
Colter had suffered untold agony from thirst, from hunger and from cold. The evenings are chilly in this country—even in summer—and, although he made a fire by rubbing two dry sticks together, he shivered all through the night. The wild sheep sorrel had given him most needed nourishment, while the body of a dead rabbit, which he fortunately stumbled upon, had brought sufficient strength to carry him to the Fort. No wonder that the trappers there gave three rousing cheers for this frontier hero.
In ten days after his arrival at the group of log huts, Samuel Colter was again fit for service, but Lewis and Clark were already far away upon their transcontinental journey. He remained at the Fort, had several brushes with the Blackfeet, and eventually found his way back to the settlements, where he was much admired for his nerve and courage in eluding the wild denizens of the plains near the headwaters of the Missouri. Certainly he had good reason to be proud of his escape from the bloodthirsty hands of the Blackfoot warriors. Three cheers for brave Sam Colter! He well deserves to be remembered as a Marathon runner who ran a more thrilling race than the tame affairs of the present day, where no band of savages, who are thirsting for one’s gore, pursue the struggling athletes.