Deerfoot on the Prairies

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

It would not do to wait, for the most frightful of deaths threatened the party. Mul-tal-la slipped from his horse and whipped the blanket from his back. Deerfoot also dismounted, but did not take his blanket with him, though he carried his gun.

“Let my brothers come with me,” he said sharply to the boys, who nervously sprang from their saddles and hurried to his side.

The Blackfoot ran a few paces in front of the three and began vigorously waving the blanket over his head, shouting at the top of his voice. At the same moment Deerfoot leveled his gun and fired at the nearest bison, which was less than a hundred yards off. The bullet struck the gigantic head, but the beast did not suffer the slightest harm. He plunged forward with the same impetuosity as before.

Deerfoot caught the gun from George’s grasp and fired again, but with no more effect than at first. The horses were snorting and rearing and in danger of breaking off in the irrestrainable panic shown by the bison. The Shawanoe reached for the rifle of Victor, and the lad eagerly passed the weapon to him.

“Let my brothers look to the horses,” he called, still cool but under restrained excitement. The boys ran to the animals and immediately found their hands full, for a horse frantic with fear is one of the most unmanageable of creatures.

Deerfoot did not discharge the third weapon, but awaited the chance to make his shot effective. It was a waste of ammunition to launch a bullet at the iron-like front of a bison. The surest avenue to his seat of life is back of the foreleg. The heads were held so low by the plunging brutes that they acted as shields to the vulnerable portions from that direction, and the position of the Shawanoe did not allow a favorable aim.

Mul-tal-la ran several steps toward the thundering herd, and then began leaping into the air, swinging his blanket and shouting like a crazy man. In any other circumstances his antics would have caused a laugh, but this was no time for merriment. Deerfoot was the only tranquil member of the party, and he stood with weapon half raised, unable to decide what to do to avert the peril sweeping down upon them like a hurricane.

Seconds were beyond value. Unless the bison were diverted at once the breath of life would be crushed out of the four and out of their animals. Wild bellowings filled the air, and peculiar crackling, rattling sounds, limitless in number, were heard. These were caused by the contact of the horns of the bison, which were crowded so close in many places that the wonder was how they were able to move at all.

The last hope seemed to lie in the Blackfoot. Unless his shoutings and contortions with the fluttering blanket, which threatened to be whipped into shreds, checked the furious beasts, they could not be stayed at all. He produced no more effect than the flicker of a straw in the wind.

At this appalling juncture, Deerfoot, with both arms outstretched, the left hand holding the rifle of Victor Shelton, dashed toward the head of the herd, which was only a few rods away. He was seen to make a tremendous leap, which landed him on the back of an enormous bull. Instead of firing the gun, he grasped it by the barrel and smote the bison with the stock, the blow descending upon one of his eyes. The youth’s strange position, which he managed to maintain, gave him the first chance to make a telling shot. Like a flash he fired at the nearest bison, sending the bullet down through the forepart of his body and into a spot so vital that, with a frenzied bellow, he stumbled forward and rolled over and over like a huge block of wood driven from the throat of a giant piece of ordnance.