Deerfoot on the Prairies

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

“I suppose I should, but I couldn’t have made the time you did.”

“I wonder whether Deerfoot will come up with us to-night,” remarked Victor, anxious to change the subject of conversation, and peering in the gloom to the southward.

“No,” replied the grinning Mul-tal-la; “you will see nothing of our brother for some days. He will not let Whirlwind use his leg till he knows he can’t hurt it, and that won’t be for some time yet.”

The camp had been made on the slope of the ridge, over which they had passed once or twice, and at the base of which meandered a small stream that finally made its way into one of the tributaries of the Platte, and so finally reached the Gulf of Mexico. Beyond this water the land sloped upward again. Thus it will be seen that our friends were near the bottom of a valley, covered with succulent grass, and showing here and there growths of willows and a species of alfalfa, whose bark sometimes serves animals for food, but owing to the small size of the growth itself the wood is comparatively worthless.

It was the turn of Victor to mount guard for the first half of the night. The horses had become so accustomed to the routine that, after packs, saddles and bridles were removed, they could be trusted to crop the herbage until ready to lie down for the night. Zigzag had gotten into the habit of nibbling much longer than his companions. Perhaps his teeth were not so good, but the sentinels had often observed him moving here and there long after his companions were asleep. George Shelton named his natural stubbornness as the cause, though the charge was hardly fair.

The night had progressed far enough for George to wrap himself in his blanket, for the night was quite cold, and lie down with his feet to the fire. The Blackfoot was not yet ready to sleep. Instead, he sat with his blanket around his shoulders and seemed to sink into a reverie. He remained motionless for a long time, gazing absently into the fire and saying nothing to anyone. At last Victor gently reminded him that he was at liberty to sleep while the boy guarded the camp.

Instead of lying down the Indian rose to his feet and stood for some minutes looking off to the northward toward the nearest stretch of mountains or the opposite side of the valley. It was as if he had noted something in that direction which interested him. He turned to the boy:

“Let not my brother fear; Mul-tal-la will not be away long.”

And with this remark he walked down the slope, soon passing from sight in the gloom.

“That’s a queer piece of business,” reflected Victor. “I wonder what’s the matter; maybe he’s seen some of his people over yonder and has gone to call upon them.”