The scene was one of activity and industry. Even the children seemed to have work instead of play to occupy them. The women, as a matter of course, were among the busiest, and rarely did one of them appear at the door of her cabin. When she did so, it was only for a very brief while.

Deerfoot was looking fixedly at one of the houses near the middle of the settlement, when a squatty figure, with a conical hat, a heavy cane, and smoking a pipe, came out and walked slowly toward a cabin only a short distance off. The Indian smiled in his momentary, shadowy fashion when he recognized Jacob Relstaub, whom he had frightened almost out of his wits a week before. No doubt the German had told the incident many times afterward, and would always insist he escaped by a veritable hair's breadth.

But Deerfoot was troubled in mind, for among all whom he saw he recognized neither Jack Carleton nor Otto Relstaub. It was not likely that, if they had returned from their hunt, both would continue invisible very long; but when minute after minute passed without showing either, his heart sank.

The Shawanoe knew a scene would be probable if Jacob Relstaub caught sight of him, so he avoided the wrathful German. The appearance of the handsome warrior moving among the cabins, naturally awakened some interest. Men and children looked at him as he went by, and several of the latter followed him. Deerfoot saluted all whose eyes met his, calling out: "Good day; how is my brother?" in as excellent English as any of them could have employed.

The Indian, it may be supposed, was known to nearly every one by reputation. Most of the settlers had heard of his exploits when they and he lived in Kentucky; they knew he guided Otto Relstaub and Jack Carleton on their perilous journey from the Dark and Bloody Ground into Louisiana; they were aware, too, that he could read and write, and was one of the most sagacious and valuable friends the settlers ever had or could have. The story which Jacob Relstaub told was therefore received with much doubt, and no one who listened felt any distrust of the loyalty of the young Shawanoe. More than one declared on general principles that Relstaub would have been served right had the warrior handled him roughly, as it was well known he could have done had he been so minded.

Deerfoot walked quietly along the primitive street until opposite the door of Widow Carleton's cabin. Without hesitation, he pulled the latch string and stepped within. There was no start or change of expression when he glanced about the apartment, but that single glance told him the story.

Mrs. Carleton was standing at the table on the other side of the room, occupied with the dishes that had served at the morning meal. Her back was toward the visitor, but she turned like a flash when she heard the door open. The scared, expectant, disappointed, and apprehensive expression that flitted over her countenance, like the passing of a cloud across a summer landscape, made known the truth to the sagacious Shawanoe.

"Deerfoot's brother has not come back from his long hunt," he said, in his usual voice, as he bowed and advanced to the middle of the apartment.

"O Deerfoot!" moaned the mother, as, with tremulous lip, she sank into the nearest chair and looked pleadingly toward him, holding her apron ready to raise to her eyes; "tell me where is my Jack!"

"My friend told Deerfoot that his brother had gone to hunt the horse that has wandered off."

"But that was more than a week ago; he ought to have come back a good while since. O Deerfoot——"

"But the horse has wandered many miles, and it will take my brother a long time to find him," interrupted the visitor, who dreaded the scene which he saw was sure to come.

"Do you think they are still hunting for him?" she asked with a sudden, yearning eagerness that went to the heart of the Indian. He could not speak an untruth, nor could he admit the great fear that almost stopped the beating of his heart.

"Deerfoot cannot answer his friend; but he hopes soon to take the hand of his brother."

"Oh, that will never be—it can never be. My poor Jack!"

Her grief could be restrained no longer. The apron was abruptly raised to the eyes, and as the white hands were pressed against the face her whole frame shook with emotion. Deerfoot looked steadily at the pitiful scene, but he knew not what to say or do. It was a vivid illustration of this strange nature of ours that the youth, who absolutely knew not what fear was, and who had seen the glittering tomahawk crash its way into the brain without a throb of pity, now found his utmost self-command hardly able to save him from breaking down as utterly as did the parent before him. He hastily swallowed the lump that kept rising in his throat, blinked his eyes very rapidly, coughed, fidgeted on the bench whereon he sat, and, finally, looked away and upward at the rude rafters, so as to avoid the sight of the sobbing woman.

"Deerfoot is a pappoose," he muttered angrily, "that he weeps when he knows not what for; he is a dog that whines before his master strikes him."

A brief but resolute struggle gave him the mastery over his emotions, though for a few seconds he dared not look towards his hostess. When he timidly ventured to do so, she was rubbing her eyes with the corner of her apron. The tempest of grief had passed, and she was regaining mastery of herself, thereby rendering great help to the valiant warrior.

"I know that it may be possible that Jack and Otto have gone on a longer hunt than before, but they did not expect to be away more than three or four days, and Jack would not willingly bring sorrow to his mother."

"My brother may have gone so far that he has lost his way, and is slow in finding it again."

"Do you think so, Deerfoot?"

The Indian fidgeted, but he could not avoid an answer.

"Deerfoot does not know; he cannot think right; he is in sore trouble for his brothers."

"No one can help them like you. O Deerfoot, won't you find my Jack and bring him home to me?"

The youthful warrior rose to his feet, and looking her in the face, spoke the words, "I will!" Then he turned and strode out of the door.



CHAPTER XVI.

A PERPLEXING QUESTION.

Deerfoot, the Shawanoe, had entered upon the most difficult task of his life. He had undertaken to follow up and befriend the youths who had disappeared more than a week previous, and who had left not the slightest clue as to where they had gone, nor what direction they had taken.

In these days, when a friend sets out to trace a person who is seeking to hide himself, he is always able to pick up some knowledge that will give valuable help in his search. The habits of the individual, some intentions, or rather wishes, to which he may have given utterance a long time before, his little peculiarities of manner, which are sure to betray themselves, no matter how complete the disguise—these, and other points, are certain to afford the help the hunter through the cities and towns and country requires.

But my reader will observe the vast difference between a case such as occurs every day, and that which confronted the young Indian. Two boys had gone into the woods more than a week before, on a long hunt, and were now missing; it was his task to find them. Could it be done?

Had Deerfoot taken up the pursuit shortly after the departure of the boys, he could have sped over their trail like a bloodhound. There could have been no escaping him; but since they left home, rain had fallen, and even that marvel of canine sagacity could not have trailed them through the wilderness. It was idle, therefore, for Deerfoot to seek for that which did not exist; no trail was to be found; at least, none in that neighborhood. In all his calculations, he did not build the slightest hope on that foundation. Had he done so, he would have sought to take up the shadowy footprints from where the boys left the settlement; but the utmost he did was to learn the general direction taken by them, when they entered upon one of the wildest expeditions that can be imagined.

Hundreds and thousands of square miles of mountain and forest were spread out before him. The vast territory of Louisiana, as it was then called, stretched away to the Gulf of Mexico, and spread toward the setting sun until stopped by the walls of the Rocky Mountains. The youth could spend his life in wandering over that prodigious area, without coming upon or gaining the slightest traces of a thousand people whom he might wish to find. The conclusion was inevitable that he must pursue some intelligent course, or he never could succeed.

It should be said that Deerfoot had not the slightest doubt of a grave misfortune having befallen his friends. Jack Carleton never would willingly remain from home for so long a period; he was too affectionate a son to grieve his mother by such a course. He and Otto Relstaub, therefore, were either prisoners in the hands of Indians, or they had been put to death.

Just the faintest possible fear troubled the young Shawanoe. He recalled the incidents which had marked the journey of himself and the boys from Kentucky, only a short time before. The Shawanoes, the fiercest and most cunning of all the Indian tribes, had not only pursued them to the river's edge, but had followed them across the Mississippi, coming within a hair's breadth of destroying the two boys who were making such haste toward Martinsville. Had any of those Shawanoes pushed the pursuit still further? Had they lingered near the settlement, awaiting just such an opportunity as was given by Jack and Otto when they went off on their hunt?

This was the phase of the question which for a long time tortured Deerfoot. He felt that it was improbable that danger existed in that shape. The Shawanoes had no special cause for enmity against the boys. If they should venture into Louisiana to revenge themselves upon any one, it would be upon Deerfoot. Nothing was more certain than that he had not been molested by any of his old enemies, for a good many days previously, nor had they been anywhere near him during that period.

But the cunning Indian, like his shrewd white brother, may do the very thing least expected. Might they not capture and make off with the boys, for the very purpose of leading Deerfoot on a long pursuit, in which the advantage would be wholly against him?

But the field of conjecture thus opened was limitless. Deerfoot might have spent hours in theorizing and speculating, and still have been as far from the truth as at the beginning; he might have formed schemes, perfect in every detail, only to find, on investigation, that they were wrong in every particular. The elaborate structures which the detective rears are often builded on sand, and tumble to fragments on the slightest touch.

Deerfoot was convinced that the boys either were captives in the hands of Indians, or they were dead. Had they been slain by red men—and it was not conceivable that both could have met death in any other way—it was useless to hunt for their remains, since only fortunate chance could end a search that might last a century.

But if the boys had been carried off, there was hope of gaining trace of them, though that might involve endless wanderings to and fro, through the mountains and wilderness. Such a hunt, prosecuted on a systematic plan for a certain time, without any results, would satisfy Deerfoot that the boys, like many older ones, had met their death in the lonely depths of the wilderness, where no human eye would ever look upon them again.

My reader, who has been let into the secret of the boys' disappearance, will perceive that Deerfoot was hovering around the truth, though he was still barred by difficulties almost insurmountable.

Suppose he should make up his mind that Jack and Otto were at that moment with the red men, in what manner—except by an almost interminable search—could he learn what tribe held them prisoners?

In the autumn of 1778, Frances Slocum, a little girl five years old, was stolen from her home in Wyoming Valley, and carried away by Delaware Indians. For a period of fifty-nine years the search for her was prosecuted with more or less earnestness. Thousands of dollars were spent, scores of persons were engaged at the same time in the hunt, journeys were made among the Western tribes, friendly Indians themselves were enlisted in the work, and yet, although the searchers were often within a few miles of her, they never picked up the first clue. After the lapse of more than half a century, when all hope had been abandoned by the surviving friends, the whereabouts of the woman became known, through an occurrence that was as purely an accident as was anything that ever took place in this world.

Admitting the unapproachable woodcraft and skill of the young Shawanoe, yet he could not do the impossible. Could he be spared a hundred years, possibly he might make the grand round of his people on the American continent, but in the meantime, what of his friends for whom he would be making this extended tour?

If so it should be that the boys were in the power of the Shawanoes, or Miamis, or Delawares, they were far to the east of the Mississippi; if with the Wyandots, they were also east of the Father of Waters, and probably in the vicinity of Lake Erie; if with the Ojibwas, to the northward along Lake Huron; if with the Ottawas, they were the same distance north, but on the shores of Lake Michigan; if with the Pottawatomies, further south on the same lake; if in the villages of the Kickapoos, or Winnebagoes, or Menomonies, it was on the southern and western shores of the same body of water; if with the Ottigamies, or Sacs, or Foxes, or in the land of the Assinoboine, the hunt must be of the most prolonged character.

Still further, the vast bulk of the western continent stretched westward toward the Pacific. When Deerfoot faced the setting sun, he knew he was looking over the rim of one of the grandest countries of the globe. He had fair ideas of the vast prairies, enormous streams, prodigious mountains and almost illimitable area, which awaited the development of the coming centuries.

One other suggestive fact was known to Deerfoot: representatives of the Indian tribes among the foothills of the Rocky Mountains had exchanged shots with the white explorers on the banks of the Mississippi. It is an error to suppose that the American savage confines his wanderings to a limited space. The majority do so, but, as I have said, the race produces in its way its quota of venturesome explorers, who now and then are encountered many hundreds of miles from home.

Within the preceding few weeks, Deerfoot had met two warriors among the Ozark mountains, who, he saw at a glance, came from a long distance and probably had never before been in that section. Neither they nor Deerfoot could speak a word the other could understand, but the sign language is universal among the North American Indians, and they were soon conversing like a party of trained mutes.

To the amazement of the young Shawanoe, he learned they were on their way to the Mississippi. They either would not or could not make clear their errand, but Deerfoot suspected it was that of gaining a glimpse of the civilization which as yet had not appeared in the West. Though the strangers were somewhat shy and suspicious, they offered no harm to the young Shawanoe, who, of course, showed only friendship toward them. From them he gained not a little rude information of the marvelous region which has since become familiar to the world.

The fear, therefore, of Deerfoot was that some wandering band from the extreme West had captured the boys, and were at that very hour pushing toward the Pacific with them. It would require a long, long time to learn the truth, which, in all probability, would prove a bitter disappointment.

From what has been said in this fragmentary manner, the reader may gain an idea of the almost infinite difficulties by which Deerfoot was confronted. Like a trained detective, however, he saw that much valuable time had been lost and a start must be made without further delay; and, furthermore, that the first step must be based on something tangible, or it would come to naught. The element of chance plays a leading part in such problems, and it may be questioned whether luck is not often a more powerful helper than skill.

After leaving the settlement, Deerfoot naturally climbed to the nearest elevation which gave a view of the surrounding country, and it was while he was looking over the scene that his thoughts took the turn indicated by the preceding part of this chapter.

It may be said that that for which he was searching was a starting point. "Where shall I begin?" was the question which remained unanswered until the sun was half way to meridian.

The principal view of the young warrior was to the south and west, for the conviction was strong that thither he must look for the shadowy clue which he prayed might lead him to success. Several miles southward a camp-fire was burning, as was shown by the bluish vapor that seemed to stand still against the clear sky; the same distance to the southeast was a slighter evidence of another camp-fire, while to the southwest was still another, the vapor so thin and faint that the experienced eye of the Shawanoe told him the party spending the previous night there had gone early in the morning, leaving the fire to burn itself slowly out.

Evidently the thing for Deerfoot to do was to visit one or all of the camps in quest of the clue which the chances were a thousand to one he would never find. Which should he first seek?

The bravest of men has a tinge of superstition in his nature, and with all of Deerfoot's daring and profoundly devout nature, he was as superstitious in some respects as a child. He could not decide by means of his Bible the precise course to follow, for one of his principles was that he alone must determine his precise course of action, the Great Spirit holding him accountable only for the manner in which he did, or sought to do, that which he clearly saw was his duty.

The hunting knife was whipped from his girdle, and, holding the point between his thumb and finger, he flung it a rod above his head. It turned over and over in going up and descending, and, when it struck the ground, landed on the hilt. Deerfoot looked down on the implement and saw that the point was turned toward the camp-fire which was furthest west.



CHAPTER XVII.

TWO ACQUAINTANCES AND FRIENDS.

The question was settled. Nothing short of positive knowledge could have led Deerfoot to change his mind as to the right course to pursue.

Stooping over, he picked up his hunting knife, thrust it in his girdle, and strode down the slope in the direction of the camp, which he knew was deserted early that morning. It was a long way to travel, but it was nothing to the lissome warrior, who would have broken into a run could he have felt any assurance of gaining any benefit by doing so.

Climbing around the boulders and rocks, leaping over chasms, pushing through matted undergrowth, and turning aside only when forced to do so, Deerfoot pressed to the southwest until three-fourths of the distance was passed. Most of that time the shadowy vapor had been beyond sight, for he did not take the trouble to look for it when the intervening vegetation interfered. He could not make any mistake as to the right course, and it was therefore unnecessary for him to take his bearings; but now, when he knew he could not be far from his destination, he came to the surface, as it may be said of a diver in an emerald sea, and indulged in a deliberate survey of his surroundings.

The first glance at the camp caused his eyes to sparkle, for it conveyed an interesting fact: instead of the smoke being so thin that it was scarcely visible, it was much denser and more plenteous. That simply showed that the camp was no longer a deserted one. Whoever had gone away in the morning had returned, and was at that moment on the ground. More than likely there were several of them, and, as the day was half gone, they were preparing their noontide meal.

At any rate the Shawanoe was sure to find some one there, and he hastened his footsteps, though he could feel but slight hope that whatever he saw or learned would have a bearing on the business in which his whole soul was engaged.

Deerfoot approached the camp with his usual caution, his supposition being that a company of Indians were resting there for a brief time. If they were Osages, or, indeed, any other tribe, except Hurons or Wyandots, he would not hesitate to go forward and greet them, for there ought to be no danger incurred in doing so. The same would be the case with the whites, though some care might be necessary to convince them no treachery was intended.

The first glimpse showed the Indian that only a single white man was present. He was preparing dinner, the preliminary step being a stirring of the smoldering camp-fire, which gave forth the tell-tale smoke. He was a striking individual, though a stranger to Deerfoot.

The fire itself was small, and was burning in an open space where the whole neighborhood served as a chimney. Several feet off was a half-decayed log, on which the man was sitting, his elbows on his knees, and a long stick held loosely in his hands. This he used as a poker, and it served his purpose well. A close approach to the fire was apt to be unpleasant on account of the heat, so he sat a short distance off, and managed things in a comfortable fashion. Now and then he poked the embers until the end of the vegetable poker broke into a blaze, when he withdrew it and whipped it on the ground till the flame was put out. His rifle leaned against an adjoining tree within easy distance, and the short clay pipe in his mouth, from which he sent out an occasional puff, added to his apparently peaceful frame of mind.

The striking point about the hunter was his magnificent physical manhood. He was more than six feet high, with immense shoulders and chest, an enormous beard of a coal black color, which grew almost to his keen black eyes, and descended over his chest in a silken, wavy mass. He was attired in the ordinary hunting costume of the border, and looked as if he might be one of those men who had spent their lives in the Louisiana wilderness, hunting and trapping animals for their peltries, which were sold at some of the advanced posts of civilization.

Deerfoot suspected the man was the owner of a horse which must be in the vicinity, for it was hardly likely that he would wander aimlessly around in the mountains and woods for the mere sake of doing so, but no animal could be seen, and without speculating long over the matter, the young Shawanoe walked forward to the camp.

While doing so, the stranger was giving his full attention to the fire and his culinary duties. The wood had burned until there were enough coals, when he arose and raked them apart, so as to afford a surface of glowing embers. Then he turned back and took up a huge slice of meat, which had been skewered on the prongs of a long stick. Balancing this very cleverly, he held the meat down until it was almost against the crimson coals. He could have done the same with the blaze, but he preferred this method.

Almost instantly the meat began to crisp and scorch and shrink, and to give off an odor which would have tortured a hungry man. The cook quickly exposed the other side to the heat, reversing several times, when the venison was cooked in as appetizing a form as could be wished.

The man gave such close attention to his task that he never turned his head to observe the figure of an Indian warrior standing only a rod or two away. Having finished his work, he carefully spread the meat on some green oak leaves, arranged on the log. Its size was such that it suggested a door mat burned somewhat out of shape.

"There," said the hunter, with a contented expression, seating himself as if to guard the prize against disturbance; "the boys can't growl over that—hello, where'd you come from?"

He had caught sight of Deerfoot, advancing noiselessly toward him, and the man was startled (though he strove to conceal it) by the fact that the other was nearer to his rifle than was the owner.

The Indian saluted him in his courteous fashion, and with a view of removing his fears, walked on until the relative position of him and the man were changed, and the latter was nearer his gun.

Then he paused, retaining his standing position, and with a slight smile, said:

"Deerfoot is glad that his brother is not ill."

Undoubtedly that brother was relieved to find in case of dispute he could reach his gun before the dusky youth, but he could hardly believe the warrior voluntarily gave up the enormous advantage thus held for a moment or two. Throwing his shoulders back, he looked straight in the eyes of Deerfoot, and then rising to his feet, extended his hand. As if conscious of his superior height, he towered aloft and looked down on the graceful youth who met his gaze with a confiding expression that would have won the heart of any one.

The abundant beard hid the mouth of the white man, but the movement of the cheeks, the gathering wrinkles under the eyes, and the gleam of his white teeth through the black meshes, showed he was smiling. Instead of saluting in the usual fashion, he brought his hand down with a flourish, and grasping the palm of the youth pressed it with a vigor which made him wince.

"So you're Deerfoot, are you? I mean the young Shawanoe that used to hunt through Kentucky and Missouri."

The Indian nodded his head to signify that he was the individual whom the other had in mind.

"I'm Burt Hawkins—you remember me?" asked he, still pumping the arm of Deerfoot, who was compelled to admit he had never before heard the name, nor could he remember ever having looked upon his face.

"Well, you have done so, whether you remember it or not: three years ago, which, I reckon, was about the time you began tramping through the woods for the benefit of the white man, I was on a scout with Kenton and some of the boys, over in Kentucky. We got caught in a blinding snow storm, and all came near going under with a rush. Things got so bad that Kenton said we would have to give up, for, tough as he was, he was weakening. The snow was driving so hard you couldn't see six feet in front of you. Cold! Well, the wind was of that kind that it went right through your bones as though it was a knife. Night was coming on, and we were in the middle of the woods, twenty miles from everywhere. The only thing we could do was to let out a yell once in a while, and fire off our guns. I don't think there was one among the five that had the first grain of hope. Kenton was leading and I was at his heels; all I could see was his tall figure, covered from head to foot with snow, as he plodded along with the grit he always showed.

"The first thing I knowed some one j'ined us—a young, likely looking Injin, which his name was Deerfoot. He had heard our guns and dropped down from somewhere. You're grinning, old chap, so I guess there ain't much use of telling the rest, 'cause you know it. I'll never forget how you led us into that cave, where you had fixed up the logs and bark so that no snow flakes couldn't get in. There was a fire burning, and some buffalo meat cooking, and we couldn't have been better fixed if we had been lodged with Colonel Preston at Live Oaks or in St. Louis."

"Deerfoot has not forgotten," said the smiling Indian, seating himself beside Hawkins on the log; "but my brother did not look then as he looks now."

Again the head of the trapper was thrown back, his white teeth shone through his immense whiskers, the wrinkles gathered at the corner of his eyes, and his musical laugh rang out from the capillary depths. Burt was proud of his beard, as he well might be. Few people in those days wore such an ornament, and those who did so were sure to attract attention.

"You talk like a level-headed gentleman, Deerfoot, for all this (here he stroked the glossy whiskers) has grown since then. I shouldn't wonder if it did change my looks somewhat. You're a blamed smart redskin, Deerfoot," added Burt, who seemed to be in high spirits; "but I don't believe you can beat it."

It was the turn of Deerfoot to laugh, and he did so with much heartiness, though without any noise.

"No; the hair of Deerfoot grows on his head; he would be sad if it covered his face."

"So would I, for it would make a confounded queer looking creatur' of you. I would like to see an Injin got up in that style; just think of Tecumseh with a big mustache and whiskers! Beavers!"

The conceit was equally enjoyed by Deerfoot, who fairly shook with mirth. He recalled the time when he confronted the mighty chieftain, with drawn knife and compressed lips, and the picture of that terrible being, with his face covered by whiskers, was a drop from the sublime to the ridiculous, which would have brought a laugh to any one.

Burt Hawkins evidently held his visitor in esteem, for, reaching out his horny hand, he gently passed his fingers over the cheek nearest him, and then drew it across the chin.

"No; there's no beard there. It's as smooth as the cheeks of my little five-year old Peggy at home. It always struck me as qu'ar that Injins don't have beards, but I s'pose it's because the old fellows, several thousand years ago, began plucking out the hairs that came on the face, and their children have kept it up so long that it has discouraged the industry in them regions. See?"

To assist Deerfoot to catch the force of his illustration, Burt gave him several digs in the ribs. This familiarity would have been annoying under most circumstances, but it was manifest from the manner of the warrior that he rather enjoyed the effusiveness of the magnificent fellow.

"Why is my brother in the woods alone?" he asked, when matters calmed down.

"I can't say I'm exactly alone, Deerfoot, for Kit Kellogg and Tom Crumpet ain't fur off, and that meat thar is gettin' cold waiting for them to come and gobble it; if they ain't here in a few minutes you and me will insert our teeth. We've been trappin' all winter down to the south'rd and have got a good pile of peltries; we've got 'em gathered, and loaded, too, and are on our way to St. Louis with 'em; warm weather is comin', and the furs are beginnin' to get poor, so we shall hang our harps on the willers till cold weather begins agin."

"My brothers are coming," said Deerfoot, quietly, referring to two other hunters who at that moment put in an appearance.



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE TRAPPERS.

The new arrivals resembled Burt Hawkins in their dress and accoutrements. They wore coon-skin caps, hunting dress, leggings, coarse shoes, etc., and each carried a long rifle and hunting knife as his weapons. They were rugged, powerful fellows, whose long experience in the wilderness had given them a knowledge of its ways and mysteries, beyond that of ordinary men. They were hardy and active, with the faculties of hearing, seeing and smelling cultivated to a point almost incredible. They contrasted with Hawkins in one respect; both wore their faces smooth. Although far removed from civilization, they kept themselves provided with the means of shaving their cheeks. Perhaps through indifference, their beards were sometimes allowed to grow for weeks, but they made sure they were in presentable shape when they rode into the trading post of St. Louis, with their peltries, and, receiving pay therefor, joined their families in that frontier town.

The three men had been hunters and trappers for many years. Sometimes they pursued their work alone, and sometimes in the company of others. They trapped principally for beavers and otters, though they generally bagged a few foxes and other fur-bearing animals. A hundred years ago, there were numerous beaver runs in the central portions of our country, and for a long time many men were employed in gathering their valuable furs, hundred and thousands of which were brought from the mountain streams and solitudes of the West to St. Louis, whence they were sent eastward and distributed.

The trapper's pursuit has always been a severe one, for, aside from the fierce storms, sudden changes, and violent weather, the men as a rule were exposed to the rifles of lurking Indians, who resented the intrusion of any one into their territory. And yet there was an attraction about the solitary life, far beyond the confines of civilization, which took men from their families and buried them in the wilderness, frequently for years at a time. It is not difficult to understand the fascination which kept Daniel Boone wandering for months through the woods and cane-brakes of Kentucky, without a single companion and with the Indians almost continually at his heels.

When Burt Hawkins and his two friends left St. Louis, late in summer or early in the fall, each rode a mule or horse, besides having two pack animals to carry their supplies and peltries. They followed some faintly marked trail, made perhaps by the hoofs of their own animals, and did not reach their destination for several weeks. When they halted, it was among the tributaries of the Missouri, which have their rise in the Ozark range in the present State of Missouri.

The traps and implements which from time to time were taken westward, were not, as a matter of course, brought back, for that would have encumbered their animals to no purpose. When warm weather approached and the fur bearers began shedding their hair, the traps were gathered and stowed away until needed again in the autumn. Then the skins that had been taken from time to time through the winter, were brought forth and strapped on the backs of the animals, and the journey homeward was begun. There was no trouble for the trappers to "float their sticks," as the expression went; for the Northwest Fur Company and other wealthy corporations had their agents in St. Louis and at other points, where they were glad to buy at liberal prices all the peltries within reach.

No trapper was likely to accumulate wealth by the method named, but it cost him little to live, and frequently during the summer he found some other employment that brought return for his labor.

Hawkins, Kellogg and Crumpet were on their way home, having started a little later than their custom, and they had reached the point referred to on the preceding night, when they halted and went into camp. In the morning, when they began to reload their animals, it was found that a rifle belonging to Kit Kellogg was missing. It had been strapped on the package which one of the mules carried, but had worked loose and fallen unnoticed to the ground. It was too valuable to be abandoned, and Kit and Crumpet started back to hunt for it. They went on foot, leaving the animals cropping some succulent grass a short distance away.

The quadrupeds underwent a hard time during the winter, when grass was scanty, so that such halts were appreciated by them. The spot where they were grazing was far enough removed to screen them from the sight of Deerfoot, when he was reconnoitering the camp. While two of the company were hunting for the weapon, the third remained behind, smoking his pipe, and, when the time came, prepared dinner against the return of the other ones. The meat was good, but not so delicate as the beaver tails on which they frequently feasted during the cold season.

It has been said more than once that the Indians along the western bank of the Mississippi were less aggressive than those who so often crimsoned the soil of Kentucky and Ohio with the blood of the pioneers. Such was the truth, but those who were found on the very outermost fringe of civilization, from far up toward the headwaters of the Yellowstone down to the Gulf, were anything but harmless creatures. As the more warlike tribes in the East were pushed over into that region, they carried their vindictive natures with them, and the reader knows too well the history of the great West to require anything further to be said in that direction.

When Hawkins went to the beaver-runs with his friends in the autumn preceding his meeting with Deerfoot, he had as his companions, besides the two named, a third—Albert Rushton, who, like the others, was a veteran trapper. One snowy day in mid-winter, when the weather was unusually severe, he started on his round of his division of the traps and never came back. His prolonged absence led to a search, and his dead body was found beside one of the demolished traps. The bullet hole through his forehead and the missing scalp that had been torn from his crown, told plainly the manner of his death.

This was a shocking occurrence, but the fate of Rushton was that to which every one of his friends was liable, and they did not sit down and repine over what could not be helped. The saddest thought connected with the matter was that one of the three must break the news to the invalid wife, who lived with her two children in one of the frontier settlements through which they passed on the way to St. Louis.

When Deerfoot told Hawkins the others were returning, the trapper turned his head and saw that Kellogg had found the missing rifle. The couple looked sharply at the warrior as they advanced, and evidently were surprised to see him in camp. Kellogg and Crumpet were men in middle life, strong limbed, sinewy and vigilant.

Deerfoot rose from the log whereon he was sitting, and extended his hand to each in turn, as Hawkins pronounced his name. Kit Kellogg scrutinized him and shook his hand with considerable warmth. Crumpet did the same, though with less cordiality in his manner. It was plain (and plainer to none than Deerfoot) that he was one of that numerous class of frontiersmen who regard the American Indian as an unmitigated nuisance, which, so far as possible, every white man should do his utmost to abate. He had been engaged in more than one desperate encounter with them and his hatred was of the most ferocious nature. It was not to be expected, however, that his detestation would show itself without regard to time and place. Kellogg and Hawkins watched him with some curiosity, as he extended his horny hand and shook that of the handsome Indian youth.

"You've heard of Deerfoot," added Burt, as he proceeded to divide the enormous piece of meat into quarters; "he is the youngster that helped Colonel Preston and his friends from the Wyandots at the time the block-house was burned."

"How should we hear of it," asked Crumpet with a growl, "when we was on this side of the Mississippi?"

"Wasn't I over in Kentucky about three years ago? I rather think I was, and would have been froze to death with Simon Kenton and a few of the other boys if it hadn't been for this copper-colored rascal—ain't that so, Deerfoot?"

And that the young warrior might not err as to the one who was expected to impart light on the subject, Burt gave him a resounding whack on the shoulder that almost knocked him off the log. The youth was in the act of conveying some of the meat to his mouth when saluted in that fashion, and it came like the shock of an earthquake.

"Why can't you talk with a fellow," asked Kellogg, "without breaking his neck?"

"Whose neck is broke?"

"Why that fellow's is pretty well jarred."

"Well, as long as he don't object I don't see what it is to you," was the good-natured response of Hawkins, who resumed chewing the juicy meat.

"Some of these days, somebody will give you a whack in return when you ain't expecting it, and it will be a whack too that will cure you of that sort of business. I believe, Deerfoot, that you are a Shawanoe, ain't you?"

"Deerfoot is a Shawanoe," was the answer, his jaws at work on the food just furnished him.

"I've heard tell of you; you're the chap that always uses a bow and arrow instead of a gun?"

The youth answered the query by a nod of the head. As he did so, Tom Crumpet, who sat further away, vigorously working his jaws, uttered a contemptuous grunt. Kit turned his head and looked inquiringly at him.

"Maybe you think he can't use the bow and arrow. I s'pose, Deerfoot, that's the bow you fired the arrow through the window of the block-house that was nigh a hundred yards off, with a letter tied around it, and fired it agin out on the flatboat with another piece of paper twisted around it—isn't that so?"

Despite his loose-jointed sentences, Deerfoot caught his meaning well enough to nod his head in the affirmative.

"Did you see it done?" asked Crumpet, with a grin at Hawkins.

"How could I see it when I wasn't there?"

"I guess no one else was there," growled Tom; "I've noticed whenever that sort of business is going on it's always a good ways off, and the people as sees it are the kind that don't amount to much in the way of telling the truth."

These were irritating words, made more so by the contemptuous manner in which they were spoken. Deerfoot clearly understood their meaning, but he showed no offence because of them. He was not vain of his wonderful skill in woodcraft, and, though he had a fiery temper, which sometimes flashed to the surface, he could not be disturbed by any slurs upon his attainments.

Kit Kellogg was impatient with his companion, but he knew him so well that he did not discuss the matter. Had not the beard of Burt Hawkins hidden his countenance, the others would have perceived the flush which overspread it. He was angered, and said, hotly:

"It might do for some folks to say that other folks didn't tell the truth, but I don't think you're the one to say it."

Crumpet champed his meat in silence, using his hunting knife for fork and knife, and drinking water from the tin cup which he had filled a short distance away, and from which the others, excepting Deerfoot, also drank. Instead of answering the slur of Hawkins, he acted as though he did not fully catch his meaning, and did not care to learn. What he had said, however, rankled in the heart of Burt, who, holding his peace until all were through eating, addressed the surly fellow:

"If you doubt the skill of Deerfoot, I'll make you a wager that he can outshoot you, you using your gun and he his bow and arrow, or you can both use a gun."

"He might do all that," said Kellogg, with a twinkle of the eye, "and it wouldn't prove that Tom was any sort of a marksman."

Crumpet was able to catch the meaning of that remark, and it goaded him almost to the striking point.



CHAPTER XIX.

DEERFOOT'S WOODCRAFT.

Neither Deerfoot nor the trapper wished to engage in the trial of skill suggested by Burt Hawkins. Crumpet feared that if such a test took place he would be worsted, in which event he would never hear the last of it from his friends. He might well shrink, therefore, from such a contest.

The Shawanoe knew he could surpass the trapper if he exerted himself, as he most certainly would do. Crumpet's ill-nature would be embittered, and matters were likely to take an unpleasant shape. When Hawkins turned toward him, therefore, expecting him to bound to his feet and invite the challenge, he shook his head:

"Deerfoot's arrows are few, and he saves them for game or his enemies."

"And therein is wise," added Kellogg, shrewd enough to see the situation in all its bearings.

Crumpet said nothing, but was greatly relieved, while Hawkins gave a sniff of disgust.

"Some folks are very free with their tongues, but when you come down to business they ain't there; howsumever, let that go; we've got our extra rifle, and I s'pose we might as well keep up the tramp toward St. Louis. Deerfoot, can't you go with us?"

He shook his head, and said:

"Deerfoot is hunting for two friends who are lost; he must not sleep nor tarry on the way."

"How is that?" asked Burt, while the others listened with interest. The young Shawanoe told, in his characteristic manner, the story which is already well known to the reader. While doing so he watched each countenance closely, hoping (though he could give no reason for such hope) to catch some sign of a shadowy knowledge of that for which he was seeking, but he was disappointed.

"One thing is sartin," remarked Burt Hawkins, when the story was fully told, "them boys ain't dead."

"I agree with you," said Kellogg, with an emphatic nod of the head, in which even the surly Crumpet joined. Deerfoot was surprised at this unanimity, and inquired of Hawkins his reason for his belief.

"'Cause it's agin common sense; when two young men go out in the woods to hunt game, both of 'em ain't going to get killed: that isn't the fashion now-a-days. One of 'em might be hurt, but if that was so, and the other couldn't get away, the Injins would take him off and keep him. More than likely the varmints carried away both, and if you make a good hunt for three or four thousand miles around, you'll get track of 'em."

"I think I know a better plan than that," said Kellogg, and, as the others looked inquiringly toward him, he said, "both of them chaps have been took by Injins who'll keep them awhile. One of these days the boys will find a chance to give 'em the slip, and they'll leave on some dark night and strike for home."

"It isn't likely both 'll have a show to do that at the same time," said Crumpet, speaking with more courtesy than he had yet shown, and manifesting much interest in the matter.

"No; one will have to leave a good while before the other, and then the one that is left will be watched that much sharper, but all he's got to do is to bide his time."

"When one of my brothers comes through the woods to his home, the other will come with him," said Deerfoot, confident as he was that neither Jack Carleton nor Otto Relstaub would desert the other, when placed in any kind of danger.

Deerfoot was confirmed in his theory of the disappearance of his young friends, for it agreed with what he had formed after leaving the settlement that morning. But, admitting it was the correct theory, the vast difficulty of locating the boys still confronted him. They might be journeying far southward in the land of the Creeks and Chickasaws, or to the homes of the Dacotah in the frozen north, or westward toward the Rocky Mountains.

Kellogg and Crumpet now fell into an earnest discussion of the question, for, though agreeing in the main, they differed on minor points, in which each was persistent in his views. Deerfoot listened to every word, for, like a wise man, he was anxious to gain all the knowledge he could from others.

But he noticed that for several minutes Burt Hawkins took no part in the conversation. He had sat down again on the log, thrown one leg over another, and was slowly stroking his handsome beard, while his gaze was fixed on the ground in front. He was evidently in deep thought.

Such was the fact, and just as the lull came, he reached his conclusion. Deliberately rising to his full height, he walked over to where Deerfoot stood, and with another slap on his shoulder, said:

"See here, young man!"

The warrior faced him, earnest, attentive, and interested. Burt shifted the weight of his body, so that it rested on his right leg; he looked down in the eyes of Deerfoot, his brow wrinkled as in the case when a man is about to deliver himself of the most important and original thoughts of his life. Then he began wabbling the index finger of his right hand in the face of the warrior, as a man with the important and original thought is inclined to do. He commenced to wabble quite slowly, gradually increasing the amplitude of the vibrations, and passing his finger so close to the countenance of the Shawanoe that it seemed almost to graze the end of his nose. He spoke slowly, pointing his words with his swaying finger:

"Deerfoot, I've got the question answered; listen to me: them boys have been tooken away by Injins; I know it; now where have the Injins gone? You ought to know as much about your race as me, but you don't; do what I tell you; go to the south till you come to some Injin village; make your inquiries there; if they haven't got the boys, they'll know whether the tribe that took 'em passed through their country, 'cause they couldn't very well do so without some of their warriors finding it out. If none of them don't know nothing about no such party, you can make up your mind you're barking up the wrong tree; then take an excursion west and do the same thing; then, if you don't learn anything, try toward the north; there ain't any use in going eastward, for common sense will teach you they haint been tooken that way; a chap with your good sense will pick up some clue that'll show you the way through."

"My brother speaks the words of wisdom," said Deerfoot, who was much impressed by the utterances of the trapper: "Deerfoot will not forget what he has said; he will carry his words with him and they shall be his guide; Deerfoot says good-bye."

And with a courteous salute to the three, the young warrior walked a few steps, broke into a light run, and was out of sight before his intention was fairly understood. The trappers looked in each others' faces, laughed, made some characteristic remarks, and then turned to their own business.

Deerfoot the Shawanoe had determined to follow the advice given by Burt Hawkins the trapper. It certainly was singular that such an extraordinary woodman as the Indian should profit by the counsel of a white man, even though he was a veteran; but Deerfoot had studied the problem so long that his brain was confused, and, having fixed his own line of conduct, he only needed the endorsement of some sturdy character like the hunter. He had received that endorsement, and now he could not use too much haste.

His intention was to journey rapidly southward, in the direction of the present State of Arkansas, until he should reach some of the Indian villages that were there a hundred years ago. He would push his inquiries among them, just as Burt Hawkins had suggested, pressing the search in other directions, until able to pick up some clue. After that, it would be an easy matter to determine the line of policy that would lead to success.

Any one engaged in such a task as that on which the young Shawanoe had entered, needs to take all the observations he can, for the knowledge thus gained is sure to be of great help. The Indian scanned the country opening to the southward, and, as was his custom, turned his face toward the first elevation which would give him the view he was so desirous of obtaining.

The elevation was similar to those with which the reader became familiar long ago, and the sun had not yet reached the horizon when the lithe warrior had climbed to the crest of the ridge, and was scanning the wilderness which opened to the south and west. He was in a region where he was warranted in looking for Indian villages, and his penetrating eyes traveled over the area with a minuteness of search hardly imaginable by the reader. The country was so broken by mountain, hill, and wood, that the survey was much less extended than would be supposed. He was disappointed in one respect, however: he could detect no Indian village in the whole range of vision.

But, besides the dim smoke from the camp he had left a short time before, he observed another to the westward, and a third to the south; he concluded to make his way to the last, though he half suspected it was the camp of another party of trappers, from whom he could not gather the first morsel of information.

Deerfoot pushed toward the valley, less than a mile distant, from which the tell-tale vapor ascended, and was quite close to the camp, when he became aware that an altogether unexpected state of affairs existed. Despite his usual caution, his approach was detected, and the Shawanoe found himself in no little peril.

It is difficult, if not impossible, to make clear how it was Deerfoot discovered this singular state of affairs; but he was more than a hundred yards from the camp, which was screened by a dense undergrowth and rocks, when he stopped abruptly, warned to do so by that subtle instinct which is like a sixth sense.

He did not leap behind a tree, nor fall on his face and creep to the rear of the large boulder on his right, but he stood erect, using the faculties of hearing and sight with a delicate power and unerring skill which were marvelous in the highest degree.

The black eyes glanced around, as he slowly turned his head from side to side, and he saw everything in front, rear, at his right, left, and above, among the limbs and on the ground. He heard the silken rustling of several leaves in the top of a beach overhead, and he knew it was caused by one of those slight puffs of wind which make themselves known in that manner.

The inhalation through his nostrils brought the faint odor of the elm, the oak, the hickory, the chestnut, the sycamore, and the resinous pine. He identified them, I say, as well as the peculiar and indescribable odor given off by the decaying leaves, the mossy rocks, and even the rotting twigs and branches; but among them all he detected nothing of a foreign nature.

But it was his hearing upon which he mainly depended, though his eyes were forced to their highest skill. When the pinnated leaf of a hickory was shaken loose by the wind puff it had hardly floated from its stem before he caught sight of it, and followed it in its downward course until it fluttered slowly to the ground.

It may be said that the danger which threatened Deerfoot was "in the air," if it be conceivable that there is anything in the expression. He was as certain of it as he was of his own existence, and yet he stood motionless, displaying an incredible confidence in his ability to discover the nature of the peril before it could take effective shape.

Had he leaped lightly behind a tree, he might have placed himself on the side which would have left him exposed to the stealthy shot; had he dropped to the ground and crept to one side of the moss-covered boulder, the same fatal mistake was likely to be made. Therefore he stood as rigid as iron, until he could learn the direction from which he was threatened.

A rustling no louder than that made by the oscillation of a falling leaf came from a point some distance ahead and on his right. So soft indeed was the sound that it cannot be explained how the human ear could be trained to the point of hearing it.

But it was that for which Deerfoot the Shawanoe was waiting, and it gave him the knowledge he sought.



CHAPTER XX.

SAUK AND SHAWANOE.

At the instant the almost inaudible rustling struck the ear of Deerfoot the Shawanoe, he caught sight of a rifle barrel as it was thrust among the undergrowth and aimed at him. It was the faintest possible sound, caused by the pushing aside of the leaves which he heard, and which he was expecting for a full minute to hear. The lightning-like glance cast toward the point showed him the dark barrel, and the ferocious gleam of the face of an Indian, crouching on one knee just beyond.

The warrior who aimed the weapon meant to send the bullet through the chest of the youth, whose approach, stealthy as it was, he had detected. The distance was so slight that the briefest possible time was required to make his aim certain; but while in the very act of doing so, the sinewy youth vanished like a puff of vapor.

The savage was dumfounded, for nothing of the kind had ever occurred, so far as his experience went, and it was unexplainable to him. He had used the proverbial caution of his people, and he knew from the expectant position of the youth that his suspicions were excited, but he could not comprehend by what means he had passed so suddenly from sight. The red man was in the very act of pressing the trigger when he discovered he was not aiming at any target.

If the Indian tongue contained an execration, it may well be imagined that a most vigorous one escaped the lips of the baffled redskin, who was shut out from his prize at the moment of closing his fingers upon it.

The warrior was a brawny, full-grown Indian, almost in middle life, who had sunk on one knee and brought his gun to his shoulder, after briefly studying the form which had approached his lurking place. He had never seen the stranger until that moment, and he only knew that he belonged to some totem unknown to him. It was probable that his home was on the eastern shore of the Mississippi, and he resented the intrusion upon his hunting grounds as he did that of a white man: consequently he was as quick to take the life of one as of the other.

Finding that his intended victim had disappeared beyond all question, the next step of the fierce assassin was to solve the meaning of the unaccountable occurrence. He noiselessly straightened up, and craning his head forward peeped through the undergrowth. All that he saw was the huge boulder or rock, within a few feet of where the youth had been standing. It followed, therefore that he had flung himself behind it, and was hiding there at that moment.

The painted visage glowed with a baleful light, for he was assured his triumph was postponed only for a few moments. The boulder might serve as a shelter while the relative positions of the two were the same, but it was in the power of the savage to change that by putting forth only moderate skill.

Taking care not to reveal himself, he began a guarded movement to the right, his course being the same as if starting to describe a circle about the hiding place. It will be seen that if he could accomplish this without exposing himself to the fire of the other, he would not need to go far before gaining a view of the opposite side of the boulder, and necessarily of him who was seeking to screen himself from discovery. To do this, however, the victim must remain where he was, for manifestly, if he shifted his position correspondingly, he would continue invisible, but he counted himself fortunate that he had noticed the peculiar configuration of the boulder, which rendered such a man[oe]uvre beyond the power of an ordinary warrior. As for himself, he had no personal fear, for the trees were so numerous that he could use them to shield his body while leaping from one to the other, while in many places he could steal along the ground without the possibility of detection.

If the fool had but known the woodcraft of the youth against whom he was so eager to pit himself, he would have turned and fled from the spot as from a plague; but he had never heard the name of Deerfoot, and little dreamed of the skill of the extraordinary youth.

The warrior stooped, crept, leaped, and stole through the wood with a celerity that was astonishing. Within a very short time after beginning the movement, he had described one-fourth of the circle and gained the view he wished. It must be remembered, too, that he had kept the boulder under such close surveillance as to be morally certain the youth could not shift his position without being observed.

But to his amazement he saw nothing of his victim. The flat slope and the leafy ground were free from anything resembling a human being. He stood peering from behind the tree, and at his wit's end to know what it meant. He held his rifle so that the hammer could be raised the moment the necessity came, and he must have felt that the wiser course was for him to leave the spot without further search.

Probably such would have been his course had he not heard a most alarming sound directly behind him. It was the faint cough of a person seeking to clear his throat. The Indian turned like a flash, and saw the dusky youth a rod distant, holding his bow loosely in his right hand, while his terrible left was drawn back over his shoulder, the fingers clenching the handle of his tomahawk. His position was precisely that of one who was on the very point of launching the deadly missile which would have cloven the skull, as though made of card-board. He had taken the posture, and then uttered the slight cough with a view of "calling the attention" of the party of the first part to the fact, and he succeeded. The elder was in the position of the hunter who while seeking the tiger awoke to the fact that the tiger was seeking him.

The warrior, whose face was daubed with red, black and yellow paint, was literally struck dumb. He had been engaged in many an encounter with strange Indians, but never had the affray been introduced in a more favorable manner to himself, and never had he been more utterly overwhelmed.

He saw that the youth was merely holding his tomahawk; the very second it was needed, he could drive it into his chest or brain. He was too proud to ask for mercy, for he had no thought it would be granted. He could only face his master and await his doom.

Deerfoot was not the one to prolong the wretchedness of another, no matter if his most deadly enemy. He stood with his left foot slightly advanced and his muscles gathered, so that he did not require the slightest preparation, and, having held the pose just long enough to make sure it had produced its full effect, he slowly lowered the tomahawk, keeping his eyes fixed on his enemy. When the weapon was at his side, he said:

"The Sauk is a wolf; he steals behind the hunter that he may leap on his shoulders when he sleeps; but the hunter heard the sound of his claws on the leaves and turned upon him."

These words were uttered in the mongrel tongue of the Sauk, for Deerfoot, after a careful inspection of the painted warrior, was quite sure he belonged to that restless and warlike tribe. He had encountered the people before, though at rare intervals, and he had hunted with a pioneer who was familiar with the tongue. The youth detected so many resemblances to other aboriginal languages with which he was familiar that he quickly mastered it and could speak it like a native.

The warrior, as has been said, was a brawny savage, well on toward middle life. He was attired in the usual fashion among the Indians, his dress looking slouchy and untidy. His straggling black hair, instead of being ornamented with eagle feathers, was gathered in a knot, so as to form what is often called a scalp-lock, and to proclaim the fact that the wearer of the same challenged any one to take it if he could. Besides his long rifle, he carried his knife and tomahawk, after the manner of his people. He would have proved a dangerous foe in a hand-to-hand struggle, but he was deprived of whatever advantage he might have possessed by being taken at such overwhelming disadvantage.

He caught every word uttered by Deerfoot, who had not mistaken his totem. He had no thought that the youth intended to show him mercy, but believed he was indulging in a little preliminary sermonizing—so to speak—before claiming his scalp for the ridge-pole of his wigwam.

The words of Deerfoot served to awaken the Sauk from his paralysis, and, throwing his head back, he said:

"The Sauk is no wolf; the Shawanoe is the fox that steals upon the hunting grounds of the Sauks."

"The lands that stretch to the rising and setting sun belong not to the Shawanoe nor Sauk nor Huron, but the Great Spirit, who loves his children to chase the buffalo and hunt the deer and bear where they can be found; but why should the Sauk and the Shawanoe be enemies?"

And to give point to the question, Deerfoot advanced and offered his hand. The Sauk concealed his surprise and gave the fingers a warm grasp, but while doing so each looked distrustfully in the face of the other. The frightful stains on the broad face of the elder did not alarm Deerfoot, who had seen much more frightful countenances among his own people. He gazed calmly into the eyes of the warrior, as the two stood close together with their hands clasped. The Indian is an adept in concealing whatever emotions may stir him, but Deerfoot saw the savage was puzzled over his action. He could not but know that the Shawanoes were the most warlike Indians in the Mississippi Valley, and one of the last weaknesses of which they could be accused was that of showing mercy to an enemy.

One point was necessary for Deerfoot to establish. If the Sauk was alone, nothing was to be feared from him; but if he had brother warriors within call, the youth had need to be on his guard.

"Why does the brother of Deerfoot hunt the woods alone?" asked the young Shawanoe, introducing himself in this characteristic fashion.

"Because Hay-uta fears not to go everywhere alone; from the ridge-pole of his wigwam flutter the scalps of the Shawanoes, the Hurons, the Foxes, the Osages, and the strange red man whom he has met and slain in the forest."

The old nature in Deerfoot prompted him to take this vaunting warrior to task. The answer of the Sauk was indefinite, but the youth could wait a few minutes for the information he sought.

"Hay-uta, the Man-Who-Runs-Without-Falling, has not taken the scalp of Deerfoot, and cannot do so!"

The flash of the eye which accompanied these words added to their force. Before they could receive reply the youth added:

"Hay-uta is a brave man when he talks to squaws; less than twenty great suns have passed over the head of Deerfoot, but he is not afraid of the Man-Who-Runs-Without-Falling."

Indian nature is quick to resent such taunts, and beyond a doubt the hot blood flushed the skin beneath the paint. Deerfoot noted the glitter of the eye, and a twitch of the muscles of the arm whose hand rested on the knife, as he made answer:

"The Shawanoe is a dog that crept up behind the Sauk, without giving him warning; the rattlesnake speaks, but the Shawanoe does not."

Deerfoot was angered by these words because they were untrue.

"The Shawanoe was walking through the wood, when the Great Spirit whispered, 'Take care; a snake is crawling through the grass; he is called Hay-uta; he will strike his fangs through the moccasin of Deerfoot, unless he crushes him with his heel; Hay-uta was not brave, because he hid behind a tree, and he pointed his gun through the bushes, meaning to shoot the Shawanoe before he could chant a word of his death-song.'"

This charge was an exasperating one, and instantly raised the anger of the warrior to white heat.

"The dog of a Shawanoe holds his tomahawk and bow; let him lay them aside as Hay-uta does his weapon, and then it shall be shown who is the brave warrior."

It was a curious fact that while this wrathful conversation was going on, the couple had been steadily backing away from each other. The act showed that in spite of the token of comity that had just passed between them, they were mutually so suspicious as to be ready to fly at each other. The last taunt forced the quarrel to the exploding point. Deerfoot slipped the cord which held the quiver of arrows in place over his head, by a motion so quick as scarcely to be perceptible, flung his bow a rod from him, tossed his tomahawk a dozen feet away, and whipping out his hunting-knife, grasped it with his left hand, and defiantly confronted the Sauk, who was scarcely behind him in taking up the gauge of battle.



CHAPTER XXI.

CHRISTIAN AND PAGAN.

The North American Indian is treacherous by nature, and will take any advantage over a foe, no matter what its nature. The Sauk had failed to bring down Deerfoot by the same unscrupulous means he had employed in other instances, but he was on the watch to repeat his tactics.

When uttering the taunt which brought about the personal collision, he flung his gun from him, and seized the handle of his tomahawk, as if with the purpose of throwing that also aside, the manner of his challenge implying that he meant the battle should be fought with the knives alone. Even the sagacious Deerfoot did not suspect him for the moment, when, on the point of grasping his knife, as he did when defying Tecumseh, the Sauk drew back his tomahawk and hurled it with incredible swiftness at the head of Deerfoot. There was a vicious spitefulness in the act which sent the missile as if fired from a gun.

Nothing could have attested the Shawanoe's miraculous activity and quickness of eye so clearly as did the ease with which he dodged the weapon. The flirt of his head was like that of the loon which dives below the path of the bullet after it sees the flash of the gun. The tomahawk struck the ground, went end over end, flinging the dirt and leaves about, and after ricocheting a couple of times, whirled against the trunk of a small sapling and stopped.

The act placed the two on the same footing. Each held only his hunting-knife. The treachery of the Sauk took place without a word being spoken either by himself or his foe. It was unnecessary, for there could be nothing to say.

Having avoided the tomahawk, Deerfoot advanced upon Hay-uta with his knife grasped in his left hand, while the Sauk did precisely the same thing as regarded him.

They were stripped for the fight, and were in deadly earnest. The Sauk had learned of the panther-like agility of the Shawanoe, and he knew no light task was before him. It would not be child's play to wrench the scalp-lock from the crown of the handsome warrior who was not afraid of any man, but Hay-uta was warranted in feeling a strong confidence in his own strength and prowess.

The warriors approached each other with the watchfulness of a couple of gladiators, seeking each others' lives for the sake of giving amusement to a Roman populace. Both slightly crouched, with their heads bent forward, their eyes fixed, while they stepped softly about, seeking an opening into which the keenly-pointed hunting knife might be driven with a furious vigor, that would render a second blow useless.

The situation was one where the slightest forgetfulness or mishap would prove fatal to him who made it. Both realized the fact, and did their utmost to guard against it.

When a couple of yards separated the combatants, they approached no closer, but began slowly circling around each other in the same stealthy fashion. The action of the Sauk convinced Deerfoot that his enemy had no friends in that section, for, if any were within call, he would have summoned them before the quarrel had gone so far. He could have called any one to his help by signal, and neglect to do so was proof that there was none to summon. Had Hay-uta done anything of the kind, Deerfoot would have leaped upon him and ended the battle in a twinkling.

Partly around, and then back again, the two seemed to oscillate, their motions corresponding so closely that it was as if both were moved by the same delicate machinery between them.

Suddenly Deerfoot feinted, like a skillful boxer, with the hand which grasped his knife. The vigilant Sauk was equally quick to parry and counter. He was as spry as a cat, and never once took his burning eyes from the face of the hated youth. Then he feinted in turn, and the Shawanoe, by his action, showed he was prepared for any demonstration, no matter what.

These preliminaries continued several minutes, when Deerfoot, in moving to the left, caught the toe of his moccasin in some obstruction and stumbled. He threw up his arms, as one will instinctively do, and for a single second was off his guard, though he recovered with incredible quickness. Any spectator of the strange combat would have given a gasp of terror, for the instant the stumble took place, the Sauk bounded forward with upraised knife and brought it down with a sweep like that of a panther's paw.

But what seemed an accident on the part of Deerfoot was done with deliberate intent. He wearied of the idle circling, and, confident of his own ability to outwit his antagonist, he dropped his guard for the very purpose of drawing out the other. Hay-uta was so certain of his own triumph that he made the mistake which the skillful fighter never makes; he drew upon his own strength and self-poise by emitting a shout of exultation; but the downward sweeping arm clove vacancy only, and ere he could recover he was struck in the chest by the head of Deerfoot, who butted him with the force of a Japanese wrestler, sending the warrior several feet over on his back. The shock was so unexpected, as well as tremendous, that the knife flew from his hand, and he nearly fainted from sheer weakness.

Inasmuch as Deerfoot was able to butt him in that style, it will be admitted that it would have been equally easy for him to have buried his knife to the hilt in the body of his enemy, but he chose not to do so. Instead, he quietly picked up the weapon and held one in each hand, while the Sauk was entirely disarmed. The latter had been frightfully jarred. The blow in the stomach fairly lifted him off his feet and drove the wind from his lungs. He lay for a moment, with his lips compressed, his body griped with pain, and with no more ability to defend himself than an infant. He kept his black eyes fixed on the youthful conqueror while writhing, and the latter stood off several paces and calmly confronted him, as though viewing the natural phase of such a contest.

But the Sauk was quick to recover, and his old enmity seemed to blaze up with ten-fold intensity.

"The Shawanoe is a buffalo," said he, from behind his gleaming paint; "he fights like the buffalo when his foe is stronger and braver than he."

Deerfoot flung the knife of the warrior to him.

"The Shawanoe will fight as a buffalo no more; he will now use his knife; let the Sauk do what he can."

A brave warrior could take no exception to this declaration, accompanied as it was by such significant action; but it cannot be conceived that the Sauk was free from misgiving, when knowing, as he did, that he held the position of contestant only through the grace of his youthful antagonist, who a moment before could have pierced his heart with his hunting knife.

Having displayed the character of a battering ram, Deerfoot now assumed another.

"The Sauk is afraid of Deerfoot; he dare not attack him until he stumbles; Deerfoot's heart was oppressed with pity when he saw the fear of Hay-uta, and he stumbled that it might give Hay-uta the courage the Great Spirit did not give him."

These were taunting words, but, convinced they were spoken with the purpose of disturbing his self-possession, the Sauk only compressed his lips the tighter, and held himself ready to seize the first chance that presented itself. His recent experience had taught him a lesson which he could not forget.

Bending his knees until he assumed a crouching posture, the Sank centered his burning gaze on the face of Deerfoot, drew back his lips until his white teeth showed like those of a wild cat, and uttered a tremulous, sibilant sound, as if he were a serpent ready to burst with venom.

If he meant to frighten Deerfoot he failed, for the mishap of the Sauk was too recent to allow such impression to be made. The figure of the crouching warrior was startling in its hideousness, but there was never a moment from the opening of the singular contest, when the young Shawanoe did not feel secure in his mastery of the situation.

The feinting and retreating went on several minutes longer, when all at once Deerfoot caught an expression, which the paint on the face of his antagonist could not hide, that showed he had resolved on forcing the fight to a conclusion. A couple of quick feints followed, and then Hay-uta leaped forward, meaning to force Deerfoot to the earth. Had the Shawanoe remained quiet, such would have been the result, but he was too supple to be entangled in that manner. He withdrew, so that when his enemy landed on the spot, he found himself still confronted by the defiant youth, who had recoiled but the single step necessary to escape the blow. Hay-uta, without a second's pause, bounded toward him again, and brought down his right arm like a flash; but, as before, it cleft the empty air, and the youth confronted him with his shadowy smile and defiant expression.

Then, as if feeling he had retreated far enough, the Shawanoe advanced on his muscular foe, who drew back as if to brace himself for the assault. Deerfoot uttered no sound, but when he bounded lightly from the ground, Hay-uta knew the crisis had come; the trifling had ended.

The Shawanoe, when close enough to strike, made a dozen circular sweeps of his good left hand, as though he had rested it on the rim of a wheel that was spinning with bewildering swiftness. No eye could follow the knife in its circlings. There was one smooth gleam like the polished periphery of the "driver" of a locomotive.

The foes, as is always the case, looked straight in each other's eyes, but every limb and portion of the body, being in the field of vision, was clearly seen. The peculiar act of Deerfoot produced the effect intended. The vision of Hay-uta became confused and dizzy, and before he could rally the Shawanoe struck his blow.

He could have killed the other as easily as he would have slain a bear, but he chose not to do so. Instead, he brought his fist down on the upper part of his right wrist with a quick violence, which, for the second time, knocked the knife from the grasp of the more sinewy warrior. So deftly was the trick done that the weapon of the Sauk flew a dozen feet straight up in the air, turning rapidly end over end and falling between the two.



If Hay-uta was subject to the will of Deerfoot a minute before, it will be seen that now he was helpless. He had been again disarmed, while the lithe youth still grasped his own weapon with the power to drive it home whenever he so willed.

The last act of Deerfoot accomplished its purpose. Hay-uta at first was self-confident; again, he was hopeful; but the latter time he was disarmed, his confidence vanished. He saw that much as he had despised the youth whose life he sought, he was his inferior in every respect. He was no match for him in a fight, nor could he approach him in his peerless woodcraft. The question of supremacy was settled forever.

Slowly recoiling a couple of steps, he folded his arms, and, with a dignity that was touching, said, in a slow, deliberate voice, with his softened gaze fixed on the countenance of his conqueror:

"Hay-uta is a dog whose teeth have fallen out; he can fight no more; he is ashamed to go back to his people; the son of a pale face who is there, when he learns the truth, will point his finger at him and laugh; Hay-uta cannot go to his lodge; let Deerfoot bury his knife in his heart!"

"Deerfoot seeks not the life of Hay-uta; had he wished it, he could have had it long ago; but Deerfoot is a Christian; he will do Hay-uta no harm."



CHAPTER XXII.

AN ABORIGINAL SERMON.

If Hay-uta the Sauk had been astonished by the action of his youthful conqueror, he was now more astonished by his words; but the former in a measure prepared him for the latter, and he saw why it was the remarkable warrior had refused to take his life when the opportunity had been his, and when too he knew that he whom he was fighting would show him no mercy.

Hay-uta, like many of his people, had listened to the words of the missionaries—those strange people who underwent hunger, thirst, and suffering that they might preach the Word of Life to those who had never heard of that wonderful Being that died to save a lost world, and who taught that forgiveness, kindness, and love were the duty of every one. Hay-uta, I say, had listened to the words of those people, but only to turn away with a scornful smile, for he was sure the creed was one to which the American Indian could never give his faith.

The red man remembered that those priests and missionaries called themselves Christians, and lo! the most skillful warrior upon whom he had ever looked, now stood before him and declared that he too was a Christian. Not only that, but he proved it by his works, for he refused to tear the reeking scalp from the head of his enemy, when that enemy was vanquished!

Once more Deerfoot picked the knife of Hay-uta from the ground and handed it (the point toward himself) to the Sauk. The latter accepted it and pushed it back in place behind the girdle that spanned his waist. Then at a signal from Deerfoot he recovered his rifle and tomahawk, as Deerfoot did his hatchet and bow and quiver. Without a word, the two walked the short distance to camp, Hay-uta slightly in the lead.

The camp was of the simplest character, consisting of a pile of sticks, leaves, and branches which served as a couch, beside furnishing fuel for the fire when he cooked his food. A long, heavy blanket was partly folded and lying on the heap of branches, where it had served as a pillow for the warrior, who was different from most of his people in using that artificial help to slumber.

The water, which is such a necessity for parties halting in the wilderness, was obtained from a tiny stream that trickled down the rocks just beyond, after which it sank out of sight in the mountain to reappear at some point far removed. The wood and undergrowth that surrounded the camp of the Sauk were very close and dense, so that the view in every direction was shut off, unless one should climb the tallest tree and take his survey from that perch.

When Hay-uta halted in front of his camp-fire he turned about and extended his hand to Deerfoot.

"Will Deerfoot tell Hay-uta about the Great Spirit of the white man?"

"He is the Great Spirit of the red man as well as of the white," replied the Shawanoe, seating himself on the ground, where he was opposite the Sauk, who slowly resumed his seat on the pile of sticks and branches. "He loves all his children—him with the face of the night, the Miami, the Huron, the Shawanoe, the Delaware, the Sauk and Fox, the white man, and all those who live far beyond the great water which rolls against the shores of our land. He loves them all, and He hides his face with grief when he sees them quarrel and try to kill each other. If His children will do as He tells them to do, they will be happy in this world and in the hunting grounds where they shall live forever."