Deerfoot on the Prairies

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

The morrow proved as fine as the preceding two or three days. The sun shone bright and the few clouds drifting across the sky only served to make the deep blue softer and more beautiful. While the morning was somewhat cool, the weather was quickly modified by the rays of the sun. Even the horses seemed to catch the glow of high spirits and broke into an easy gallop without any urging on the part of their riders. Zigzag was the only one that objected, and he did it through simple stubbornness, for his burden was not onerous.

The afternoon of this day brought an experience to Deerfoot the like of which was never known before or afterward. He was thrown from his horse, and that, too, when his gait was a walk. It came about in this manner:

He was riding slightly in advance, as was his custom. He had swept the horizon with his eyes, as he always did at intervals, and seeing nothing unusual, allowed himself to sink into a reverie. This was not amiss, for such spells of meditation never lasted long and nothing of an alarming character could steal undetected upon them, even if he should forget his surroundings for an indefinite time. Mul-tal-la was always alert, and George Shelton was as fond as ever of appealing to his spyglass.

The horse Simon was walking easily forward when one hoof entered a gopher hole and he sank to his knee. The stop was so abrupt that Deerfoot, who was entirely off his guard, slid over the animal’s neck to the ground. He was taken completely by surprise, without a second for preparation, but even then he dropped upon his feet and turned to learn the cause of the mishap.

George and his brother smiled at the discomfiture of their friend, but ceased the next instant when they saw that his horse had been seriously hurt. He attempted to take a step, but checked himself with a moan of pain, and then rested on his three legs. The alarmed Deerfoot stooped and gently passed his hand over the injured portion. Simon moaned again and placed his nose on the shoulder of his owner, as if begging him to give him relief.

The young Shawanoe straightened up, patted the forehead of the suffering beast, and said in a choking voice:

“His leg is broken!”

And then he nerved himself to do the hardest thing of his life. With the eyes of the dumb animal fixed appealingly upon him, as if he read his purpose, Deerfoot brought his rifle to a level and sent a bullet through the brain of the horse.

It was an act of mercy, but it hurt the youth more than the victim. He stood with the smoking weapon in his hand, looked at Simon as he sank unconscious to the ground, breathing out his life as he did so with a single pitiful moan. Then Deerfoot turned away and, bowing his head, sobbed like a child.

Simon had always been a good animal, though he was not the equal, either in speed or intelligence, of many others; but a man and horse cannot be comrades very long without forming an affection for each other. Deerfoot’s kindness to such dumb beasts always drew them toward him, and he had learned to love this devoted horse who had borne him hundreds of miles from his home.