Deerfoot in The Mountains

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

The morning dawned dull, chilly and clouded, with threats of snow in the air. The Shawanoe was the first to awake, and busied himself in his usual noiseless fashion with renewing the fire and preparing the morning meal from the antelope meat, of which enough was on hand to last for several meals. The salt and pepper brought by the boys from home had been used up long before, and they had accustomed themselves to get on without the condiments which seem so much of a necessity with us.

The breakfast was eaten with the usual deliberation, none of the three speaking of the event that was impending, though the brothers were full of it. When Deerfoot arose, drew his knife from his girdle, carefully inspected it and then shoved it back in place and glanced across the room to where his rifle was leaning in one corner, Victor could keep silence no longer.

"You know what faith we have in you, Deerfoot, but we are anxious, and shall be in distress until we see you back again."

"Why are my brothers troubled?" calmly asked the Shawanoe.

"We can't help believing Taggarak will use treachery, for he must know he isn't certain to win when he attacks you."

"Nothing can make him believe the truth till it comes to him. He will take no warriors with him. Deerfoot is in no danger. Let my brothers smile and be glad."

"I wish I could grin, but it's too hard work," was the doleful response of Victor, the face of his brother showing that he felt the same.

Deerfoot warmly shook hands with each in turn, such being his usual custom, stooped and drew the flap aside and passed from sight. Enough of the Blackfeet were astir to notice him moving at a moderate pace past the lodges toward the clearing at the rear of the village. He greeted all in their own language, and did not show by anything in his manner that he had any important matter in hand. He stealthily glanced here and there, on the lookout for Taggarak, but saw nothing of him. Perhaps the chief had already gone to the scene of the hostile meeting; perhaps he had not yet set out, for the hour was early, or, what was more likely, he had taken another route. Of one thing Deerfoot was certain: the chief had told no one of what was coming, except Mul-tal-la, who bore the message to the youth. When the two combatants should meet, no human eye must witness the terrific combat.

The sagacious Shawanoe had decided to follow a certain line that may impress you as singular for him to adopt. It seemed like undue confidence when he declared that he had no fear of the man who was certainly the most fearful fighter of the whole Blackfoot tribe. Modest as he was by nature, Deerfoot was too intelligent not to understand his decisive superiority, as compared with any of his own or of the white race. That superiority had been proved too often to leave any doubt in his mind. Moreover, with his youth and high health, he was aware that these remarkable powers were not declining, but rather increasing, and ought to increase for a dozen or more years to come.

The American Indian, as a rule, does not show excessive muscular development. Arms and legs are wanting in those ridged bunches of sinew which often bulge out all over our athletes. And yet more than one red man has displayed prodigious strength. Deerfoot believed he was stronger than Taggarak, despite his own light, graceful figure, which made him a dusky Adonis.