Deerfoot in the Mountains by Edward Sylvester Ellis (books to read in your 30s TXT) 📕

he would have done the same had there been three; but he was not the fool to engage in a fight when he had but a single leg to stand upon.
The panic-stricken horse, having clambered to his feet, dashed away. Whirlwind assumed his statue-like pose and Deerfoot brought his rifle to a level, with the Assiniboine staring into the muzzle.
The fight had been of the cyclone order, but, brief as it was, Deerfoot had become himself again. He was the Christian who could not shed the blood of one that was unable to defend himself, even though that one was his deadly enemy.
The Assiniboine had dropped his gun when assuming his position at bay, and it lay several feet away on the ground. Lowering his own weapon, Deerfoot pointed after the fleeing horse and said sternly in the tongue of the Blackfeet:
"Run! run after the horse!"
The gesture, as much as the words, explained the command. It was so unparalleled, so utterly unexpected, that the Assiniboine stood in a daze. Deerfoot knew that the report of the gun would speedily bring the warriors to the spot, and there was not a minute to spare. He repeated his order more sharply than before and accompanied it with a threatening lifting of his gun to a level.
The other could not misunderstand the significance of voice and gesture. He stepped forward to pick up his rifle.
"Stop!" shouted the Shawanoe, before the other could stoop. "Leave it where it is! Follow the horse."
The hammer of the leveled rifle was at full cock. Still unable fully to comprehend all that had taken place, the chieftain faced about and broke into a lope after his horse, which acted as if it would keep up its pace for the remainder of the day.
Deerfoot waited till the chief had gone a hundred paces, when heading the other way he gave the word to Whirlwind, whom, however, he held down to a walk. The rider wished to witness developments.
Looking back he saw the Assiniboine motionless and gazing after him with emotions that can hardly be imagined or described. He stood thus for a minute, when he started on a run to recover his rifle from where it lay on the ground. Just before reaching the spot the party of horsemen emerged from the mouth of the canyon and paused while their leader rejoined them.
It would be interesting to know how he squared matters with his warriors. It would have required a vivid imagination and a genius in the way of invention to explain how it was his horse was just vanishing in the distance; how the chief was in the act of recovering his weapon, and more than all, how it came about that the youthful warrior of a strange tribe, who had already slain one Assiniboine--though that was yet unknown to this party--was riding leisurely off on the back of the special pet of the chieftain. If the Assiniboine was wise he made a clean breast of it, and insisted that the dusky stranger was a marvel in his way whom it was exceedingly unwise to push into a corner.
The chagrin of the Assiniboine party was not soothed by the action of Deerfoot, who, having spared the life of an enemy, felt himself justified in "rubbing it in," so to speak. He faced Whirlwind toward the group, held him motionless, and, swinging his rifle over his head, indulged in a series of tantalizing shouts that were anything but soothing to the chief and his friends. How they ached to get the terrible young warrior into their power! What exquisite vengeance they would have wreaked upon him!
But such bliss was impossible. They knew what speed the black stallion possessed, and it was not supposable that his rider meant to challenge all of them to combat. So they maintained a glum silence as he rode from view.
Meanwhile, Deerfoot found he must give attention to the ankle, whose condition had been aggravated by the fight with the Assiniboine leader. It was much swollen and the pain was torturing. Still his bravery and self-command prevented anything in the nature of murmuring. In truth, he would have suffered death without outcry.
The remarkable youth found a strange consolation. He was familiar with the story of the Saviour's death on the cross and remembered the nails that were driven through the hands and feet.
"_He_ suffered from four wounds, besides having a spear thrust into his side. Deerfoot has only one hurt in his foot and that does not bleed. _He_ had the weight of the world's guilt crushing his heart. What are Deerfoot's sufferings compared with His? It is my Father's will and therefore the heart of Deerfoot is glad."
Failing to see a sign of strangers in the neighborhood, the Shawanoe drew Whirlwind down to a walk and halted at the first mountain stream, which happened to be no larger than the one where he had broiled his supper the night before.
The moment Whirlwind saw that his master wished to dismount he sank upon both knees. His sympathetic act touched Deerfoot, who, stepping carefully upon the well limb, patted the neck of the steed and thanked him.
"Deerfoot would be helpless but for Whirlwind. They must now stick together as never before."
Hopping to the brook the youth slipped off his moccasin and removed the stocking. The swollen ankle was as sensitive as a boil. Dipping the stocking in the icy water he rang it almost dry and rubbed the limb, gently at first and then more vigorously until it was in a glow. This was soothing and gave partial relief, but much pain remained. An injury of that nature takes a long time to subside.
Having never suffered from illness or wounds, the Shawanoe was without any remedy at command, nor did he know aught of the many medicaments which his race, as well as the white people, use. Had the hurt been a simple cut or wound he would have given it no heed, but his sprain forced itself upon his notice.
He finished rubbing the ankle and carefully drew on the stocking, with Whirlwind sympathetically watching him, and doubtless longing for some method of giving relief. I wonder whether the creature recalled that day, many weeks before, when his young master rubbed his injured knee so tenderly and ministered to him until he had fully recovered. We cannot fathom the mysteries of the brain in animals of a high order of intelligence, and it is not for us to deny that such might have been the fact.
Suddenly the stallion turned toward a pile of rocks to the left and emitted his faint, warning neigh. Deerfoot was up in a twinkling, despite the additional suffering caused by his action, and seized his rifle resting near. As he did so an Indian appeared from behind the rocks and came toward him. A glance showed him to be the dwarf with whom Deerfoot had had his singular meeting when journeying northward.
The red man of short stature took long wabbling strides, made numerous gestures and grimaces and rapidly uttered words, not one of which was understood by the Shawanoe. Still chattering, gesticulating and grinning he came forward, without heeding the black steed, flung his long bow to the ground, and kneeling down, gently lifted the foot of Deerfoot, who had not yet drawn on his moccasin. The visitor saw that the limb was injured and tenderly rested the foot upon his knee, the owner thereof making no objection, gently turned down the stocking and spent a minute or two in inspecting the swollen ankle. Then with a sympathetic aspiration he slowly stroked it with his hand. In doing so he drew downward each time and never rubbed the surface upward.
There is something in magnetism, and Deerfoot was sure of a slight cessation of the pain, though the relief was not marked. When the caressing had been repeated a number of times, the dwarf softly laid the foot on the ground and rose to his feet. Another vigorous discharge of unintelligible words followed, and he wabbled rapidly off beyond the rocks from behind which he had come a short time before.
Since he left his bow lying on the ground where he had flung it, Deerfoot knew he had gone in quest of some remedy and would soon return. He therefore kept his seat on the ground and patiently awaited the other's coming.
In a few minutes the dwarf reappeared, bearing in his hand a bunch of green leaves. The twigs were pinnated, and at the base of each leaflet, where it joined the common peticle, was a single crimson berry, resembling the common wintergreen, but the genus was unknown to the Shawanoe, though he knew something of medicinal herbs.
Dividing the twigs with their leaves and berries into halves, the good Samaritan laid one pile on the ground, pointing to it, and still chattering. Deerfoot knew he wished to direct his attention to the healing plant, and he nodded his head to signify he understood and would remember his request.
Then, as deftly as a girl, the dusky friend picked the berries from the twigs in the other bunch. They filled the palm of one hand, which he held out for Deerfoot to inspect. The Shawanoe nodded again. The other wabbled back to the rocks, but did not pass out of sight. Picking up a bit of stone, he began crushing the berries upon a projection of the rocks. It took but a brief time to turn them into a yellow, sticky mass which emitted a slightly aromatic odor. Returning to the patient, he skillfully spread the poultice on several of the larger leaves, laid them over and around the swollen ankle, and then, as gently as a mother with her babe, drew the stocking over it, so as to hold the poultice in place.
Deerfoot leaned back, resting his body on his elbows, and heaved a long, grateful sigh. The relief was bliss itself. For a minute or two he believed the injury was fully healed, but a slight movement of the foot proved that this was not the fact. Nevertheless, the effect of the crushed berries was magical. As he looked up in the homely, twisted countenance, his expression spoke his gratitude. The dwarf grinned. The language of thankfulness needs no interpreter. Deerfoot came to the upright posture, and, reaching forward, took one of the stranger's hands in his own and patted it, murmuring his thanks.
The dwarf pointed to the twigs and berries remaining untouched and said something, which was made clear by the rapid flitting of his forefinger from them to the wounded member. The meaning was plain. The patient was to use them as the others had been used. Deerfoot signified in his usual way that he understood the direction.
The dwarf stood for a few minutes silent, with his eyes on the face of the Shawanoe seated before him. Then he spoke again, and Deerfoot would have given much to have understood the words, but he could not form the remotest idea of their meaning. The visitor stopped and picked up his bow from the ground, turned and swung with his awkward gait up the slight slope, passed from sight behind the pile of rocks, and the Shawanoe never saw or heard of him again.


CHAPTER IX.
IN THE ROCKIES.
There was wonderful virtue in the remedy used by the dwarf Indian. You and I know that in many a mountaineer's cabin and barbarian's wigwam are found curatives which surpass anything known to what we call medical science. The proofs of this fact are too numerous to be questioned.
As Deerfoot rode away with Whirlwind on a walk, he knew his hurt had been greatly benefited. With his foot hanging, the flow of blood downward tended to increase