Deerfoot on the Prairies E-Book

Edward S. Ellis

• Herausgeber: Publisher s11838
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Deerfoot on the Prairies written by  an American author Edward S. Ellis. Published in 1905. And now republish in ebook format. We believe this work is culturally important in its original archival form. While we strive to adequately clean and digitally enhance the original work, there are occasionally instances where imperfections such as blurred or missing pages, poor pictures or errant marks may have been introduced due to either the quality of the original work. Despite these occasional imperfections, we have brought it back into print as part of our ongoing global book preservation commitment, providing customers with access to the best possible historical reprints. We appreciate your understanding of these occasional imperfections, and sincerely hope you enjoy reading this book.

Leseprobe

Deerfoot on the Prairies

By

Edward S. Ellis

Illustrator: J. Steeple Davis

Table of Contents

CHAPTER I    WESTWARD BOUND.

CHAPTER II    THE FIRST CAMP.

CHAPTER III    THIEVES OF THE NIGHT.

CHAPTER IV    AN ACQUAINTANCE.

CHAPTER V    A CLOSE CALL.

CHAPTER VI    A MISHAP.

CHAPTER VII    JACK HALLOWAY.

CHAPTER VIII    GOOD SEED.

CHAPTER IX    A BATTLE ROYAL.

CHAPTER X    WHIRLWIND.

CHAPTER XI    PHYSICIAN AND PATIENT.

CHAPTER XII    A HURRIED FLIGHT.

CHAPTER XIII    A STARTLING AWAKENING.

CHAPTER XIV    SHOSHONE CALLERS.

CHAPTER XV    A QUESTION OF SKILL AND COURAGE.

CHAPTER XVI    WIRELESS TELEGRAPHY.

CHAPTER XVII    IN THE MOUNTAINS.

CHAPTER XVIII    INDIAN CHIVALRY.

CHAPTER XIX    A CALAMITY.

CHAPTER XX    OLD FRIENDS.

CHAPTER XXI    PRESSING NORTHWARD.

CHAPTER XXII    A CHANGE OF PLAN.

CHAPTER XXIII    THE MONARCH OF THE SOLITUDES.

CHAPTER XXIV    A MEMORABLE ENCOUNTER.

CHAPTER XXV    THROUGH THE GREAT DIVIDE.

CHAPTER XXVI    PARTING COMPANY.

CHAPTER XXVII    DOWN THE COLUMBIA.

CHAPTER XXVIII    AT LAST.

Deerfoot and Whirlwind.

CHAPTER I   WESTWARD BOUND.

ONE morning in early spring, at the beginning of the last century, a party of four persons left the frontier town of Woodvale, in southern Ohio, and started on their long journey across the continent.

Do you need an introduction to the little company? Hardly, and yet it is well to recall them to mind.

First of all was our old friend Deerfoot, the Shawanoe, to whom we bade good-bye at the close of the story “Deerfoot in the Forest,” with a hint of the important expedition upon which he had decided to enter with his companions. He was mounted on a tough, wiry pony that had been presented to him by his friend Simon Kenton, and which, in honor of the famous ranger, the new owner had named “Simon.”

This horse was provided with a bridle, but that was all. Deerfoot, one of the finest of horsemen, never used a saddle. He said the bare back of a well-conditioned steed was more pleasant than a seat of leather, and he had never yet bestrode an animal that could displace him. On this trip the Indian youth carried as his principal weapon the handsome rifle presented by General William H. Harrison, Governor of Indiana Territory. Deerfoot had not yielded a bit of his faith in his bow, but that implement would not prove so handy as the other in an excursion on horseback. Besides, his three companions had begged him to leave his bow at home, and he was quite willing to do so.

Deerfoot was dressed as he has been before described, but he carried a long, heavy blanket that was strapped to the back of his horse and served in lieu of a saddle. The powder horn and bullet pouch suspended from his neck were as full as they could carry. He looked so graceful on his animal that many expressions of admiration were heard from the people of Woodvale who had gathered to see the start. Deerfoot did not seem to hear any of the compliments, though some were addressed directly to him. He was never pleased with anything of that nature.

Little need be said of Mul-tal-la, the Blackfoot, who had come from the neighborhood of the Rocky Mountains on an exploring expedition of his own, and was now to return with the Shawanoe as his comrade. The sturdy, shaggy horse, which he had obtained through the help also of Simon Kenton, was accoutred like the one ridden by Deerfoot. The blanket strapped to his back was the one brought by the owner from that far-off region, and served him also as a saddle. The Blackfoot, like nearly all the Indians of the Northwest, was an excellent horseman. Through some whim, which no one understood, Mul-tal-la had named his animal “Bug,” a title so unromantic that for a long time it was never heard without causing a smile from his companions. Sometimes Mul-tal-la also grinned, but nothing could induce him to change the name.

You remember the grief of Victor Shelton was so depressing over the death of his father that he surely would have gone into a decline but for the ardor roused by this proposed excursion to the Pacific. The prospect was so fascinating that he came out of the dark clouds that gathered about him, and was the most enthusiastic of the four.

George was almost as deeply stirred and in as high spirits as his brother, but now and then a tremor of fear passed over him when he thought of what they would have to pass through before their return. He would have shrunk and probably turned back but for Deerfoot. There was no person in the world in whom he had such faith as in the young Shawanoe; but there is a limit to human attainment, and it might be that his dusky friend would soon reach his when the four turned their faces westward.

George had named his horse “Jack,” while Victor called his “Prince.” All were quite similar to one another, being strong, sturdy, docile and enduring, but none was specially gifted in the way of speed. More than likely they would meet many of their kind among the Indians which would be their superior in fleetness. But, if danger threatened, our friends would not rely upon their horses for safety.

Now, in setting out on so long a journey, which of necessity must last many months, our friends had to carry some luggage with them. This was made as light as possible, but pared to the utmost there was enough to require a fifth horse. While of the same breed as the others, he was of stronger build and best fitted for burdens. He was the gift of Ralph Genther, who, you may recall, was beaten in the turkey shoot by Deerfoot. It was Genther who named him “Zigzag.”

“’Cause,” explained the donor, “if you let him to go as he pleases, he’ll make the crookedest track in creation; he will beat a ram’s horn out of sight.”

Excepting his blanket, Mul-tal-la had no luggage which he did not wear on his person. It must be admitted that the American Indian as a rule is much lacking in that virtue which is said to be next to godliness. Despite the romance that is often thrown around the red man, it is generally more pleasant to view him at a distance. Close companionship with him is by no means pleasant.

I need hardly say that it was not so with Deerfoot. He was as dainty as any lady with his person. Kenton, Boone and others had laughed at him many times because of his care in bathing and the frequency with which he plunged into icy cold water for no other reason than for tidiness and health. The material of which his hunting shirt and leggings were made allowed them to be worn a long time without showing the effects, but underneath them was underclothing kept scrupulously clean by Deerfoot’s own hands. Only his close friends knew of his care in this respect, and some of them looked upon it as a weakness approaching effeminacy. And you and I esteem him all the more for these traits, which harmonized with the nobility of his character.

So it was that in the large package secured to the back of Zigzag was considerable that Deerfoot himself had wrapped up, and with the modesty of a girl carefully screened from prying eyes. Aunt Dinah, had she been permitted, would have loaded down two horses with articles for the twins, who, she declared, could not possibly get on without them. As it was, it is enough to say that the boys were far better remembered than they would have been if left to themselves. As Victor expressed it when he saw her gathering and tying up the goods, they had enough to last them for a journey round the world.

The start was made early on Monday morning, when the sun was shining bright and the opening spring stirred every heart into life and filled it with thankfulness to the Giver of All Good. Men, women and children had gathered in the clearing to the north of the settlement to see the party start and to wish them good speed on their journey. Deerfoot and Mul-tal-la had ridden in from the Shawanoe’s home the day before, so that the start might be made from the settlement.

There were the laughing, the jesting, the merry and earnest expressions, with here and there a moist eye, when the travelers were seen seated on their horses and pausing for the final words. The one most to be pitied in all the group was Aunt Dinah, who was bravely trying to hide her real feelings under an expansive smile, in which there was not a shadow of mirth or pleasantry. She stood on the outer edge of the boisterous group, her folded hands under her apron, her eyes fixed on the boys, who were laughing, shaking hands and exchanging wishes and jests with their friends.

Suddenly the colored woman walked forward, pushing her way through the throng to the side of Deerfoot. Then she drew a piece of old-fashioned blue writing paper from under her apron and handed it up to him. He looked smilingly down at her, and she, without saying anything, walked back to the fringe of people and faced around again.

Deerfoot opened the slip and saw some writing in pencil. During the years when George and Victor Shelton struggled, with more or less success, to obtain a common-school education, Aunt Dinah had managed to pick up a bit here and there of elementary knowledge. She had spent a long time the night before, groaning in spirit, often sharpening her stub of a pencil, which, of course, she frequently thrust into her mouth, rubbing out and re-writing, perspiring and toiling with might and main to put together a message for the young Shawanoe’s eyes alone. Not until the other members of the household had long been sunk in slumber did she get the missive in final shape.

Some of the letters were turned backward, all curiously twisted, the lines irregular and the writing grotesque, but the youth to whom the paper was passed made out the following:

“Mister Dearfut—i feal orful bad 2 hav u go orf with them preshus babiz—pleas tak gud car of em, and bring em back rite side up—

“i’ll pra 4 u and the babiz evry nite and mornin, and if i doan forgot in de midle ob de da. i’ll pra speshully 4 u, cause as long as ure all rite, they’ll B all rite.

“Ant Dine.

“p.s.—u’ll fine rapped in paper in de top bundel sum caik dat am 4 u speshully, but u may let de oders hab 1 bite if u feels like it—member dat i’m prayin 4 u.

“p.s.—Doan eet 2 mutch ob de caik 2 wunst, or it’ll maik yo syck—it’ll B jus’ like you 2 gib it awl to de oders, but doan you doot! Eet mose ob it yosellf.

“p.s.—De caik am 4 yo speshully. Ise prayin’ 4 yo.

“p.s.—Doan forgot Ise prayin’ 4 yo. De caik am 4 yo.

“p.s.—De caik am yo’s—Ise prayin’ 4 yo.”

There was not the ghost of a smile on the face of the Shawanoe while carefully tracing the meaning of this crude writing. He gently refolded the paper, reached one hand within his hunting shirt, and, drawing out his Bible, put the folded paper between the leaves and replaced the book. Then, heedless of the clamor around him, he looked over the heads of the people at the lonely woman standing a little way off and watching him with manifest embarrassment.

Turning the head of his horse toward her, he deftly directed him through the throng and halted at the side of Aunt Dinah. She was so confused that she was on the point of making off, for nearly everyone was looking at the two, the action of Deerfoot having drawn attention to the couple. Leaning over his horse he extended his palm.

“Good-bye, Aunt Dinah.”

She bashfully reached up her big hard hand. He held it for a few moments, and, looking down in the ebon countenance, spoke in a low voice:

“Deerfoot thanks you; he is glad that you will pray to the Great Spirit for him, for he needs your prayers. Your promise is sweet to Deerfoot.”

Aunt Dinah did not speak, for with every eye upon her and the Indian she could not think of a syllable to say. While she was trying to do so, Deerfoot did something which no one ever saw him do before, and which was so strange that it hushed every voice. He leaned still farther from the back of his horse and deliberately touched his lips to the cheek of the colored woman. Then he straightened up, and, without a word, started his animal on a brisk walk to the northward, the others falling into line behind him.

CHAPTER II   THE FIRST CAMP.

IT was inevitable that, during the weeks and months spent by Deerfoot and Mul-tal-la together, they talked often and long about the journey to the Northwest. At night in the depth of the forest, by the crackling camp-fire, or when lolling in the cavern home of the young Shawanoe, it was the one theme in which both, and especially the younger, was absorbingly interested.

You need hardly be reminded that a hundred years ago the immense territory west of the Mississippi was an unknown region. Teeming to-day with a bustling, progressive people numbering millions, covered with large cities and towns, grid-ironed by railways, honeycombed with mines, humming with industry, and the seat of future empire, it was at the opening of the nineteenth century a vast solitude, the home of the wild Indian and wild animal.

A few daring hunters and trappers had penetrated for a little way into the “Louisiana Purchase,” and they carried on a disjointed barter with the red men, but the fragmentary knowledge brought back by them scarcely pierced the shell of general ignorance. Captains Lewis and Clark had not yet made their famous journey across the continent, but they were getting ready to do so, for President Jefferson’s heart was wrapped up in developing the largest real estate transaction ever made.