THE loss of Deerfoot’s horse was received more seriously by the friends of the young Shawanoe than by himself. There were several ways of meeting the difficulty. George Shelton proposed that the load carried by Zigzag should be divided among the others and the animal used by the dismounted one. The latter shook his head, and Victor suggested that he and his brother take turns with him in riding their horses. Before that proposition was made Mul-tal-la came forward with a similar one affecting only him and his comrade.

The Shawanoe declined them all.

“Deerfoot will walk,” he calmly said. “He has done so many times. He will not grow tired as soon as the horses. Let us go forward.”

To show that the question was settled he strode off across the prairie, carrying his rifle in a trailing position and stepping with his elastic gait, which he could maintain hour after hour without fatigue. Moreover, it would have been no hardship for him to strike into a lope which would have kept the animals at a trot throughout the day. You know that a man, trained to the exercise, can walk farther than a horse, and no person was ever better trained than the young Shawanoe.

The oppression caused by his loss showed itself for a long time. He held his place in advance of the others, rarely speaking and often acting as if unaware that he had companions with him. They respected his moods, and though they chatted among themselves, said little or nothing to him.

About the middle of the afternoon the boys descried an object in the horizon to the northeast, which at first they took to be a white cloud heaped against the sky. But its stationary position and its peculiar form revealed that it was a mountain peak whose summit was covered with snow. Seen against the sky it had a soft bluish tint which made it a most striking figure in the landscape. The clear air of these regions makes distances deceptive, objects seeming to be much nearer the spectator than they are. When Victor said he thought they might camp that night at its base, the Blackfoot told him that by traveling all of next day they would hardly be able to reach the mountain, which is one of the loftiest of that section.

The truth of Mul-tal-la’s words was evident when, after fully four hours of brisk walking, they camped on the bank of a small creek and saw the sun sink behind the mountain peak, which appeared to be as far away as ever. The plain was still treeless, and the fire kindled on the gently sloping bank was of dry buffalo chips such as had already done them service. Before daylight had departed the horizon was scanned with the aid of the spyglass without discovering anything of an unusual character.

It was the turn of the red men to act as sentinels, and Deerfoot quietly said that he would take the first watch, calling the Blackfoot when he thought proper. As usual, he read a chapter from his Bible. After he had finished and the devotions of all were over, he again took out the book, placing himself so that enough light fell upon the pages to permit him to read. The last sight that the boys had of him was in this motionless posture and occasionally turning a leaf. Thus he sat when the three sank into restful slumber. The succulent grass was so abundant that the horses, relieved of saddles, bridles and burdens, were left free to crop as long as they chose and to sleep when the notion came to them.

A half hour after his friends had fallen asleep Deerfoot put away his book and rose to his feet. It was profoundly still. On his right flowed the slightly muddy stream, no more than fifty feet wide and of shallow depth. In other directions stretched the slightly rolling prairie until lost in the gloom. The moon was near the full, but its light was treacherous and uncertain because of the masses of clouds that slowly drifted across its face. At times one could see quite clearly for a hundred yards or more, and then the shadows crept up to the camp, whose fire threw out comparatively little light. Now and then the watchful sentinel was able to detect the dim outlines of the farther shore, even when the surface of the stream did not reflect the mild glow of the fire.

Nothing escaped his vigilant eye. It was not yet midnight when Bug, the horse of Mul-tal-la, showed a strange restlessness. He whinnied softly two or three times, and finally came to his feet. Deerfoot moved silently to his side, patted his neck and spoke soothingly. The animal showed no alarm, but rather curiosity. His nose was pointed to the south, where he seemed to scent something unusual.

The Shawanoe waited till the moon emerged from the clouds and then peered in that direction. He could detect nothing out of the common. He walked a little way and again waited for the moon’s face to become unveiled. Still all looked the same as before. He went back to Bug and found him in the former position, with ears pricked forward, nose thrust slightly out and breathing more rapidly than was his wont. The other horses gave no sign of disturbance.

The Shawanoe was puzzled. He felt that if this dumb brute was able to detect the approach of danger he ought to do the same. Kneeling, he pressed one ear against the damp ground.

As he did so he was sensible of a faint rhythmic, velvet-like tremor, which was inaudible when he raised his head. Using the earth again as a medium, he listened and brought all his faculties into play. The singular pulsation neither increased nor diminished. The best comparison he could make was to that of the multitudinous tramping of thousands of tiny feet upon the earth miles away, recalling the gradual subsidence of the racket created by the stamping of the bison. Deerfoot knew it was not produced by those animals. It could not have been elk or deer, for they never herded in such vast numbers, nor could it have been made by wolves, since their tread was too soft for the sound to penetrate far.

The Shawanoe was mystified. Rising to his feet again he stood gazing southward, wondering what strange thing was to come out of the flickering moonlight. But none appeared, and hearing a movement of Bug, he turned and saw him disposing himself for the night. He lay down on the grassy earth, prepared to continue the rest which had been broken so curiously.

This looked as if the uneasiness of the horse was over. A few minutes later Deerfoot again placed his ear against the ground. Immediately he was aware that that faint, tremulous throbbing which had so mystified him was passing away. Whatever had caused it was receding, and soon the silence became as profound as before. He was still at a loss to understand its nature, though he thought it was produced by animals treading the earth in immense numbers.

Walking back to camp, he noted the three unconscious forms wrapped in their blankets, for there was enough sharpness in the air to make the warmth pleasant and little heat was given out by the fire. The Shawanoe paused just far enough away to be revealed dimly in the subdued glow, and was leaning on his rifle, listening, looking and meditating, when the stillness was broken by a single exclamation:

“Helloa!”

It was the voice of a white man on the other side of the stream which ran close to the camp. The face of the moon happened to be clear at that moment, and glancing across, Deerfoot saw a shadowy figure standing on the edge of the water. The head and front of a horse showed at his side, and he was evidently studying the camp upon which he had come.

Deerfoot straightened up and promptly called back:

“Helloa! Come over and see us.”

As he spoke he walked down to the edge of the stream, as if to meet the stranger, who in a cheery voice replied:

“That suits me. I was thinkin’ of doin’ that same thing,”

He was seen to swing himself upon the back of his horse, whose ribs he kicked with his heels and ordered forward. The animal stepped with some hesitation into the water, snuffing and feeling his way. He had advanced only two or three paces when Deerfoot observed that he was followed by two other horses, each of which carried a large pack on his back. The distance was short, but it took some time for the three animals to ford the stream, which was no more than two or three feet deep, with a bottom of soft mud.

The moment the leader touched dry land the man slipped from the saddle and extended his hand.

“Why, you’re an Injin!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t think that, but I’m powerful glad to see you.”

“And Deerfoot is glad to see his brother,” replied the smiling Shawanoe, returning the pressure of the other.

“Who are you?” asked the white man, peering closely into the countenance as dimly seen in the firelight.

“Deerfoot, and a Shawanoe by birth.”

“Shawanoe,” repeated the white man. “I don’t remember havin’ heerd tell of them varmints—that is of that tribe,” he corrected with a laugh; “no offence.”

“Their home is a good many miles from here, in Ohio.”

“Ah! that explains it. I’ve seed worse lookin’ redskins than you.”

“And plenty better ones,” said Deerfoot rather taken with the off-hand manner of the newcomer.

“Dunno ’bout that. There are a few good ones among the redskins and some powerful mean ones. I’m suited with you so fur, from the ground up.”

The visitor was of massive frame, fully six feet high, broad in proportion, with a grizzly beard that covered his face to the eyes and flowed over his breast. He was dressed like a half-civilized Indian, wearing a fur cap, thick shoes instead of moccasins, and with a heavy, loose coat flung over his deerskin hunting shirt. He had a strong, well-formed nose and bright gray eyes, which peered keenly from under his shaggy brows. His voice was deep, and with a genial musical tone which was pleasing and fitted well his frank manner. He shifted his long rifle to his left hand when he extended the other to the Shawanoe and scanned him with a sharpness evidently acquired by his long experience on the prairies and in the mountains.

“Deerfoot is glad to meet his brother. He hopes he will stay for the rest of the night with him and his friends.”

“Who mought they be?” asked the man, looking around at the three forms wrapped in blankets near the fire. The boys were sleeping quietly, and even the Blackfoot did not seem to have been disturbed by the rather boisterous greeting of the visitor.

“Afore you tell me about ’em, I guess I may as well unship my rudder,” added the latter, who proceeded deliberately to remove the loads from the other two horses and place them on the ground. Then each was freed from his belongings and given a resounding slap in turn:

“Off with you and none of your tricks. If I haven’t cured you of tryin’ to sneak off I’ll cure you in the mornin’, and don’t you forget it.”

His own horse kicked up his heels, flirted his head and led the way, the others soberly following out into the gloom till they came to the place where the animals of our friends were reposing. There was some neighing, meant for greetings, and then no further attention was given by them to one another.

Deerfoot flung some chips on the blaze and sat down, inviting his visitor by a gesture to do the same. He assumed a lolling posture and produced a short black clay pipe. Crumbling some plug tobacco in the palm of his hand, he poked it into the bowl with his forefinger and lit it from the fire.

“My name is Jack Halloway,” he said, after several puffs. “I’ve spent the winter in the mountains, trapping beaver and foxes and sich, and am on my way to St. Louis with a good load of peltries. I’ve had better luck than usual and am later in gettin’ back than is gin’rally the case, but it paid to wait, though I did have some trouble with the Snake Injins. Howsumever, you said you was goin’ to tell me ’bout your friends that seem to be sleepin’ powerful heavy like.”

Deerfoot had decided that no harm could come from telling this man the truth about himself and his companions, and he now did so. The Indian belonged to the Blackfoot tribe, and had been on a visit a long way to the east. Deerfoot had agreed to accompany him on his return home, but hoped to be with his own friends again the following year. Then he told of the twin boys, sons of a friend of his. One was going into a decline because of grief over the loss of his parent, and it was agreed that the only cure was through diverting his thoughts and energies by this long and hard journey. That no mistake had been made was proved long before, for the lad had gained so rapidly in strength and spirits that he was his former self again and physically the equal of his brother in every respect.

Jack Halloway listened with close interest, for the story was remarkable. He sagely remarked, however, that if the boys had been so greatly benefited the wisest thing to do was for the three to turn back and allow the Blackfoot to finish his journey alone.

“I jedge from what I’ve heerd that you’re a powerful cute Injin and know that, though you’re a good many miles from St. Louis, you ain’t half way to the Pacific yit. I’ve never been there myself, but I know ’nough of the mountains and Injins to know that the job is the biggest thing in all creation. Depend upon it, Shawanoe, you’ll never get home onless you turn back now!”

This was said with great earnestness, the trapper nodding his head and slapping his knee with his palm.

“The words of my brother are wise, but it would sadden the hearts of my brothers if we went home, and he who was ill would become ill again and die.”

“See here, younker, own up now; it’s you who’d feel the worst.”

And to help make his meaning clear, Jack Halloway leaned over and thrust his thumb into the ribs of Deerfoot and chuckled. The Shawanoe could not help smiling.

“Deerfoot can never be happy till he looks upon the face of the great water that lies far toward the setting sun. He must go on.”

“Wal, you’re boss of the job, as I can see from what you say, but I want to tell you one thing that you don’t know.”

“There are many things that Deerfoot doesn’t know.”

The trapper glanced around, as if afraid of being overheard, and then lowered his voice almost to a whisper as he leaned toward him:

“The varmints in the mountains that you’ve got to git through are gettin’ more cantankerous than ever. I’ve trapped and hunted among ’em for nigh onto twenty year, and never had as much trouble as last winter. I’ve been told by the boys that come down the Missouri in the spring that there’s just as good huntin’ and trappin’ up that way, and the varmints don’t bother ’em half as much as out here; so I’ve made up my mind to strike out for that part of the world next fall when I go for the beaver runs agin.”

Jack Halloway was not slow to see that his warnings were thrown away on the young Shawanoe, and was discreet enough to take another line. He puffed his lips for some minutes, continually glancing at Deerfoot, who tried to act as if unconscious of this scrutiny, which at times became embarrassing. Suddenly the trapper started like a man who had forgotten something.

“That’s powerful qu’ar,” he said, “and I beg your pardon.”

While speaking he was groping hurriedly through an interior pocket of his coat, and now brought forth a flask and twisted the cork from it.

“I allers take a keg of it into the mountains, for there’s no thin’ like it when you find the weather a bit too cold, and it’s just as good when it’s too hot or you’ve got the blue devils and don’t feel right. After you.”

And he leaned over and reached the flask to Deerfoot.