Just below the point where the two giants had made their involuntary dive, the river-bank was crowned with a small cane-brake, whose roots, striking through its overleaning edge, formed a ragged, yellow, rope-like fringe, that hung down almost to the surface of the water. In these roots, Burl saw a means of extricating himself from his present predicament, and of escaping from the very enemy this self-same brake had aided him in coming at the hour before. Accordingly, making a deep dive, that under cover of the water he might unanticipated take the first step in his new course of action, he came up a few moments after directly under the brake, with an upward shoot that brought him within reach of the rooty fringe. Grasping a bunch, he began drawing himself up, hand over hand, at the same time widely gathering in the ropy mass with his knees, not only to expedite his climbing and reënforce his arms, but to lessen the strain on the smaller bunch, which could be grasped but by his hands. He had made but half the ascent, when becoming aware that the enemy had silenced his battery of stones, he glanced over his shoulder, still climbing, to discover the cause, and found to his dismay that his design had been frustrated. Black Thunder was seen running with prodigious swiftness along the opposite shore, to cross the river at the shallows about one hundred and fifty yards below, where the bank, losing its jutting feature, allowed of an easier passage, though less direct than that his black antagonist had chosen. The ascent was effected quickly enough, considering how desperate and novel the means. But by the time the negro had drawn himself over the bank and forced his way through the break, the Indian had come dashing over at the shallows, and now was seen running across the narrow strip of bottom land which down there the river, in making a bend, had left between itself and the foot of the hill.
Now followed an uphill race more desperate, if that were possible, than the downhill roll. The black giant was nearer the goal, but the red giant had longer and nimbler legs, which made it again about nip and tuck between the black and the red. Leaving their tracks to be traced by great handfuls of iron-weeds, caught at and uprooted in the scramble, up they struggled, with might and main, and with feet that could not quicken their speed, however fear might urge or hope incite. Panting and all but spent, the two giants gained the top of the hill at the same instant—Burl nearest his ax, where it lay on the ground, Black Thunder nearest his gun, where it leaned against the log. Five long strides more and the Indian had laid his hand on the loaded weapon, when having snatched up his ax, the negro hurled it with engine-like force at the savage, the ponderous head striking him full on the hip and sending him sprawling to the ground. Burl was making all speed to recover his weapon, this time, with its cleaving edge, to deal the death-blow without fail, when, before he could do so, Black Thunder, though powerless to walk or stand, whirled himself from under his victor's uplifted hand, and with a few gigantic flounces had regained the brink of the steep. Burl sent his battle-ax after him with a right good will, though not with right good aim, the missile merely inflicting a flesh wound in the enemy's arm. The next moment, with a loud whoop of defiance and scorn, Black Thunder had flung him away sheer over the brink of the steep. Hastily snatching up one of the Indian's rifles, Burl ran to the brow of the hill, and taking deliberate aim at the rolling body far down there, fired. Up came ringing a cry—a death-yell, so it would seem, so fierce it was, and wild and drear. The moment thereafter, now rolling with frightful rapidity, over the river bank vanished the Wyandot giant.
Chapter XI.
How Little Bushie Figured in the Fight.
But Bushie—where was poor little Bushie all this time? The moment the fight had begun the boy, to keep clear of the conflicting giants, had run with the speed of a frightened fawn to the shelter of the neighboring thicket. Here, crouched down and peering out through the openings of his covert, he had watched with fearful interest how manfully and against such desperate odds his brave, his faithful Burl had battled for his deliverance—his little heart sinking within him whenever the combat seemed to be going against his champion. And when the two giants, still locked together in the death hug, had rolled to the foot of the hill, and he had seen his darling Burl's bare, yellow soles, with a wide-wheeling fling, go vanishing over the river-bank, then had the poor little fellow given up all as lost and cried as if his heart would break. But when, some minutes after, he had spied the bear-skin cap he knew so well heaving above the purple iron-weeds far down there, then had he plucked up heart again. Now that the fight seemed ended, with victory won and deliverance wrought, he was on the point of running out, in the joy and thankfulness of the moment, to seize his precious old chum by the hand, when a new danger, from an altogether unexpected quarter, suddenly presented itself and checked him in the act.
The Fighting Nigger was still standing on the brow of the hill, and with his empty gun still sighting the river-bank where Black Thunder had vanished, when all in the self-same instant he heard a cry from his little master, a growl from Grumbo, and the venomous hiss of a tomahawk which grazingly passed his nose and sunk with a vengeful quiver in the trunk of a tree beside him. Wheeling about, he saw the young Indian confronting him, and with his scalping-knife brandished aloft, in the act of making a panther-like spring upon him. The bullet which had passed through the body of the grim savage had pierced the young brave's left arm and spent its remaining force on his ammunition-pouch, the inner side of which, being made of thick, tough buffalo-hide, had stayed its further progress—though the shock had been so severe as to lay him senseless many minutes. Consciousness and the power of motion returning to him at the close of the fight, he had leaped to his feet, and by reason of the wound in his left arm disabled from wielding a rifle, had snatched up the nearest tomahawk to hurl that at the Big Black Brave with a Bushy Head, where he was still standing on the brow of the hill, peering through his rifle smoke at the river-bank below.
Up to this moment Grumbo had kept his powerful jaws clenched unrelentingly on the throat of the dead savage; but seeing the new danger threatening his master, he had at last released his hold, and with a growl and a bound was at the enemy's skirts, which he seized with a violent backward tug, just as the tomahawk was on the point of being hurled, and with a force and an aim which else had sent the black giant rolling in his turn to the bottom of the hill. Again had the war-dog turned the scale of battle in his leader's favor.
"I yi, you dogs!" And with his battle-cry resounding again through the lonely wilds, the Fighting Nigger threw himself on his new antagonist, whom the invincible Grumbo still held back by the skirts, and wresting the scalping-knife from the young brave's hand, bore him with resistless force to the ground—Indian, nigger, and dog, all in a huddle together.
"Han's uff, Grumbo!" For the war-dog, now that his blood was up, could hardly be restrained from falling tooth and nail on the prostrate foe. "Han's uff! You's chawed up one uf de varmints; jes' let Burlman Rennuls wind up dis one. Han's uff, I say; or I'll——." And with this the Fighting Nigger made a sham thrust with the knife at his comrade's nose, which forced him to fall back a few paces, where he sat doggedly down on his tail, with the injured air of a faithful follower who had been defrauded of his dues.