Deerfoot on the Prairies

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

He came forward at a measured deliberate walk, head high in air, tail sweeping near the ground, mane falling low, with his silken ears thrust forward, eyes glowing, and indulging in a peculiar flirting of his nose, as if he sought thereby to sharpen his perceptions. The mouth was partly open, and it was clear that he did not feel quite at ease in thus approaching the strange group. But the eyes of his subjects were upon him, and he would die before faltering in the face of an enemy. So he came on, with a step that was the more impressive because it was so slow, so deliberate and yet so unhesitating.

While Mul-tal-la, George and Victor Shelton were studying him with absorbing intentness, Deerfoot, the Shawanoe, became an actor in the extraordinary drama.

His position was slightly in advance of his friends. He now handed his rifle to Mul-tal-la and coolly walked forward toward the stallion. His arms were hanging at his side, and his step was timed to that of the horse, so that it was as if both were marching to the tap of the same drum. His action centered the eyes of all the animals of both parties as well as those of his friends upon him.

When this singular performance began less than fifty paces separated the Shawanoe and the equine chief. The approach continued until half the interval was passed, when the stallion paused. Evidently he was not clear as to the meaning of the youth’s conduct. The latter slowed his pace, but did not stop. The horse raised his head higher, flirted his nose, flinging a speck of foam over his black breast. Probably, had the two been alone, he would have retreated, for there was something uncanny in the advance of the Shawanoe, but he remembered that the eyes of his own soldiers were upon him, and he could not show the white feather. Possibly, too, he understood that his enemy, as he regarded him, was without any formidable weapon with which to defend himself. The next action of the brute gave reasonableness to this theory, for, after his brief pause, he resumed his approach at a brisker step than before.

Deerfoot now stood still and awaited his coming, his arms still at his side, but with all his muscles, nerves and senses strung to the highest tension. The stallion meant to fight him, and the youth was waiting for the battle to open.

Mul-tal-la hardly breathed, so intense was his interest, but he held his bow and arrow ready to launch the missile if it should become necessary to save his friend. The brothers would have shot the stallion without further delay had they dared to do so, but they could only imitate the Blackfoot—hold themselves ready to interfere at the critical moment. They could not run the risk of offending their friend by interposing until the necessity arose.

A Battle Royal.

The black steed advanced with a more confident step, and Deerfoot stood as if he were a figure carved in stone. Then, when they were within a step or two, the stallion thrust forward his head, and his white teeth were seen to gleam as he made a vicious snap at the face of the youth. The latter recoiled just enough to escape the bite, and with the flat of his hand smote the side of the nose with a vigor that must have given a sharp tingle to the horse. With a neigh of rage he instantly reared and savagely pawed the air with his front hoofs. He struck at the Shawanoe, who leaped slightly back to avoid the feet, which, had they landed, would have cloven his skull in twain. Then he ran swiftly for a few paces and with a single bound rose like a bird in air and dropped astride of the satin back.

“Now throw Deerfoot if you can!” he shouted. Then he called to his dazed friends: