Footprints in the Forest

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

It will be remembered that the wood from which Deerfoot had caught sight of the Pawnee war party came down to the edge of the broad stream over which he swam in order to reach them. On their side, the growth of the forest ceased some rods away from the water, so that for a considerable distance, a broad band of open land lined the river. In this cleared space the camp-fire of the Pawnees was burning, and they were grouped around it, with nearly as many warriors at varying distances in the wilderness beyond. When they looked, it was toward the nearest trees, from which they expected almost every moment to see some of their comrades emerge, escorting the prisoner.

Red Wolf seemed to glow with anger, because the Shawanoe persisted in keeping out of the hands of the Pawnees, who, it may be said, surrounded him. Removing his long-stemmed pipe from between his teeth, he held it poised in his left hand, while he gesticulated with his right.

"Who are the bravest warriors that hunt through the wilderness and over the prairies?" he asked, launching out in that vain-glorious boasting, so characteristic of his race: "who drove all other red men before them? Whose war-whoop makes the pale-faces run to their cabins and hold their doors closed? Whose shouts cause their enemies to tremble and call on the Great Spirit to protect them? Who is it that sweeps—"

A splintering crash broke in upon this series of questions, and the bowl of Red Wolf's pipe was shattered into a hundred fragments, the atoms flying into the faces of the startled Pawnees, who, accustomed to surprises, leaped to their feet and glanced right and left to learn the cause of the astounding occurrence.

At that instant something like the flitting of a bird's wing twinkled in front of their eyes, and the quick "chuck" which followed showed them an Indian arrow with its head buried in the ground fifty feet beyond, and the feathered point still a-tremble from the force with which it had been driven from the bow.

Like a flash they looked toward the opposite point, and that which met their gaze was perhaps the most alarming sight they had ever seen. Scarcely a hundred feet away, on the edge of the wood, stood Deerfoot the Shawanoe. He had already launched two arrows, and, when they caught sight of him, he was standing with a third drawn to the head, and apparently in the very act of letting fly at one of the terrified warriors.

The American Indian as a rule is not powerful, and his muscular development is moderate; but his life accustoms him to quickness of movement, and he generally excels in running and leaping. Any one looking upon Lone Bear and Red Wolf at that moment would have set them down as the champions of their tribe. When they identified the archer and saw that he was on the point of discharging another missile, they made a break for shelter.

Red Wolf headed for the river, possibly because he didn't dare to lose the time it would take to turn partly on his feet. He ran as if he meant to make the effort to leap entirely across, or at least to outrun the arrow which he believed was chasing him.

He hadn't far to go, and it didn't take him long to travel it. A bound, a splash, and he vanished.

Lone Bear knew he was closer to the wood than to the water, and he was equally determined to attain shelter. In his tremendous effort, he seemed to think he could dodge the shafts that were whizzing through the air in quick succession after him. He bent his head so that he was crouching half way to the ground, and leaped from side to side, ducked and dodged and contorted himself in an indescribable fashion. When he bounded among the trees, he must have felt he had made the escape of his life.