Joe Napyank; or, The River Rifles

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

The first mouthful was dropped most suddenly, it being so hot that his tongue was blistered. But he soon became used to, and in a few moments, had swallowed the entire piece, and was in the act of wiping his fingers upon his hair, when a shrill swoop broke the stillness of the woods, and turning his startled gaze, he saw the wrathful squaw standing within a few feet of him.

With the ear-splitting screech of this creature, Joe Napyank, gained like a flash of lightning, a true idea of the fool-hardy recklessness he had displayed. Her outcries were continued and immediately attracted the attention of the Shawanoes, who had caught a glimpse of the white man, as he was rising to his feet, and their fleetest runner started in pursuit.

The hunter’s frame was gaunt and muscular, and he was sinewy and fleet-footed. His Indian experience also had given him great endurance, and he now darted off in the woods at a rate that excited the admiration of his pursuers. The three separated, so as to make sure of the fugitive, and called all their energies into play to overtake him.

The forest for a considerable distance was open, and afforded a good field for the runners. The distance between Joe and the savages remained about the same for some five or ten minutes, when one of the latter discharged his rifle, and the white sprang high in air with a loud yell.

But he hadn’t been struck. It was only a habit he had gained years before. The report of the gun gave an impetus to his flight which soon carried him far ahead of the redskins. Dodging hither and thither, flitting in and out among the trees, it was impossible for the latter to gain anything like an accurate aim, and they did not repeat the attempt to bring him down.

All was now going well for the fugitive, and he would have escaped had he understood the woods. But his ignorance was fatal. Directly ahead of him was a deep gorge, or ravine toward which the Shawanoes had managed to direct his footsteps, and unconsciously to himself he was running directly into a trap.

It was not until he was upon the very brink that Napyank comprehended his peril. His hair fairly rose on his head, as he glanced about him. To the right or left, stretched the deep yawning gorge, too broad to be leaped over, and offering no means of access except a sheer precipice, down which it would have been certain death for him to have gone. Escape was cut off! There was no help for him! He was fairly at bay!

“It’s all up!” he muttered, wheeling around and placing his back toward the gorge. “Joe Napyank is fairly cornered and now there is going to be a row!”

The three Shawanoes, as we have already stated, had separated during the pursuit and were now quite a ways apart. The center one being directly in the rear, was the closest to the fugitive, and came up to him, considerably in advance of the others. This was fortunate in one sense for the hunter, as for the time, he had but a single opponent with which to contend.

The lithe, agile Indian was all eagerness to secure the white as his capture, and forgetful of the axiom “a stag at bay is a dangerous foe,” that is, if he had ever heard it, he halted not in the least, but came at full speed toward him. When within a rod or two, he whirled his tomahawk in a circle over his head, and hurled it with tremendous force full at the breast of his dauntless adversary. The latter from the motion of his arm comprehended what was coming, and dodging his head with lightning-like quickness, the weapon flashed over him, and went spinning end over end down the ravine.