It was several miles distant, in a directly southern course, and was nearly or quite two hundred feet higher than the one on which he stood. The latter, like those to which reference has been made, was of the nature of a ridge, while the one on which his eyes were fixed was a diminutive Teneriffe as to its form.
While the manner of Deerfoot indicated very plainly that he expected to see something out of the usual order of things, yet it looked very much as if he would have been pleased over his failure to do so. No painter could limn a more striking picture than that which was formed by Deerfoot, at the close of that beautiful spring day, when, as the sun was setting, he stood on the elevation and gazed across the intervening country.
His right elbow rested on the top of the rock, and his right leg supported the weight of his body. The lower half of the left leg was slung across the other, the toe of the moccasin touching the earth. The right hand dropped over the side of the rock, and lightly held the long bow which leaned against the same support. The posture was that of elegant ease, and the best calculated to bring out in clear relief the Apollo-like splendor of his figure. The luxuriant black hair streaming over the shoulders, the gaudy eagle feathers thrust in at the crown, the lustrous black eyes, the slightly Roman nose, the rows of colored beads around the neck, the dull yellow of the hunting shirt, the quiver of arrows behind the right shoulder, the red sash, holding knife and tomahawk, the gold bracelet on the left wrist, the fringed border of his hunting shirt about the knees, the brilliant fringes to the leggings, the pretty moccasins, and the shapeliness of form, limb and feature—all these made up the poetical Indian, which, sad to say, is almost as rare among his race as the black diamond is in nature.
But such was Deerfoot the Shawanoe.
CHAPTER XV.
THE RETURN AND DEPARTURE.
Easy and negligent as was the posture assumed by Deerfoot the Shawanoe, his eyes were never at rest. Resting for a moment on the promontory, they darted to the right and left down the valley, and even took in the shifting clouds in the sky above. But it was the peak which riveted his attention, and which was scrutinized with minute closeness until the gathering gloom shut it from sight.
It was not fairly dark when he kindled a fire on the very highest point, and then placing himself so far from it that the glare could not interfere with his sight, he looked out in the night. The darkness was such that nothing could be seen beyond his immediate surroundings, but he knew where to look for that which he expected and yet did not want to see. For fully an hour the Shawanoe held his motionless attitude, gazing as fixedly to the southward as ever an eagle stared at the sun. Then that for which he was waiting appeared.
From the very crest of the distant mountain peak, a flaming arrow suddenly began climbing toward the stars. Up, up it went, as does the rocket on a summer night, going slower and slower, like an old man plodding up hill, until, wearied out, it paused, and, for one instant remained stationary in the air, as if doubtful whether to push on or to fall back. The flaming point swung over until it pointed toward the ground, when it shot downward with ever increasing swiftness until it vanished. It must have struck within a yard of the spot from which it had been driven upward.