He was a bold and adventurous Indian, this Assineboine—perhaps of his party the best and bravest. Still he would not have scrupled at any moment, had occasion offered, to make an effort for his freedom at the expense of the lives of those around him; but now, the generous act of the white man struck him in a totally new light, and he sat on his horse unable to shape a distinct line of action amidst the many conflicting thoughts that thronged his brain.
There had existed, in days when his people, the Assineboines, were one of the most formidable tribes on the northern prairies—when Teltacka, or the Left-handed, ruled from the Souri to the South Saskatchewan—there had been, he knew, a custom in the tribe for young men to show unexpected clemency to a vanquished foe; but never had he heard, amid the stories told over the camp fire of deeds of bygone battle or of ancient prowess, such an example of generosity and courage as that now before him. As a boy he had heard his father tell how once, in a battle with the Gros Ventres near the Knife river, he had spared the life of a young man whose horse had plunged into a snow-drift, leaving its rider completely at his mercy, and how years after the same Gros Ventre had repaid the gift by saving his former benefactor from the fury of the victors, when the might of the Assineboines was crushed by the same band on the banks of the Missouri. These things now all flashed through the mind of the Assineboine, in a tenth of the time it has taken me to put into words the scene in which he found himself suddenly set at liberty, and free to follow what course he pleased.
I did not wait to see what my late prisoner would decide upon, but turning my horse quickly from the spot I rode in the direction of the place where the Sioux had been last seen. I had not gone very far before I was aware that my late prisoner was following in my wake. An idea of treachery at once crossed my mind; but looking back I saw the Assineboine making signs of friendship. I pulled up and awaited his approach. As he came up he pointed to his defenceless state; then to the bow and arrows which I had taken on the previous day, and which I still carried slung over my shoulder; then the Assineboine’s arm was directed towards the ridge, and placing his hands in the attitude of those of a man drawing an arrow to full stretch at the moment of firing, he indicated plainly enough his meaning. He would help in the coming struggle if he had arms to do so. I handed him his bow and quiver, and then we two, so lately captor and captive, rode forward as comrades to the fight.
[CHAPTER VIII.]
The fight—The Sioux and the swamp—The trader’s triumph—Red Cloud fights on foot—The trader finds he has other foes to reckon with—The Assineboine draws a straight arrow—The trader’s flight—Our losses and gains—Winter supplies—Our party is completed—“All’s well that ends well.”
There was no time now for reconnoitring the ground before the attack began. There was in fact nothing for it but to ride straight over the ridge, and lunge at once into the struggle, for, as we rode briskly up the black incline towards the top of the hill the sharp report of a shot already echoed through the hills, a signal that the fray had begun. It was even so.
The Sioux, following the valley round the foot of the ridge, had debouched close to his foe, and had put his horse straight for the spot where the trader was still engaged, on the edge of the pool, in loading the stores which he had just carried from the water, upon the backs of his pack animals.
The presence of the Sioux became instantly known to his enemy. Relinquishing his work, the trader seized his gun from the ground where it was lying, and dropping upon one knee he took deliberate aim at the advancing horseman. The Sioux bent low upon his horse’s neck as the white smoke flashed from the muzzle, and the bullet whistled over his lowered head, burying itself in the hill-side.