Smarting with pain, the wounded animal went off at a gallop. As the Indian raised himself to his seat with a cry of triumph, the indignant white man discharged one of the barrels of his rifle at him; but the wily savage had dropped down by the side of his horse.
Supposing that he had drawn the fire of his enemy, the exultant Indian again raised himself to his seat, and fired quickly. The white man’s rifle cracked again at the same instant, and the Indian’s horse fell upon him. Seeing his enemy entangled by his horse, the white man rushed upon him with his tomahawk; but, before he could reach him, the Indian was up, with his battle-ax in his hand.
The contest was now one of skill and strength; but both parties, having tried each other’s mettle, fought slowly and warily, husbanding their wind for an effective stroke. The blows of each were so well parried, that the combatants became wearied in the encounter before either had sustained any serious injury, and they drew back, as if by mutual consent, to recover breath.
At this juncture a sudden thought seemed to strike the Indian, who raised both of his hands above his head, with the forefingers locked. This, in the pantomimic language of the plains, understood by all the prairie Indians, was a sign of friendship. He then threw his battle-ax behind him, and stepped forward three paces, extending his right arm with the hand open.
The white man hesitated a moment, and then, as if ashamed of himself for mistrusting his late adversary, dropped his tomahawk, and advanced in his turn with extended hand.
“If you really are a friend, red-skin,” he said, in the Dacotah dialect, “you have a strange way of showing it; but I am willing to forget and forgive.”
“My white friend is a warrior,” replied the Indian. “He is a great brave, and I am glad that I have met him. Let him come with me, and he shall share my lodge, and shall be my brother.”
“Perhaps we had better wait a little before going so far. I am not quite so ready to join hands with a man who has just sought my life. You are a Blackfoot, I should say, judging from your paint. What name do you go by?”
“My brother has guessed well. I am a Blackfoot, and am a great brave among my people, who have named me White Shield. What is my brother called?”
“My name is Fred Wilder, and the red-skins call me Silverspur, because, I suppose, I have always worn one of those articles among them.”