15 An Interruption

The autumnal tints of the forest deepened, and still we lingered in the valley. These indications of coming winter and the alarming fact that our supplies of ammunition were growing short warned us that it was time to resume the overland journey. But we were loth to go.

We had been discussing the necessity of an early start. All were agreed upon that point, but nobody would name the time of departure. After we had talked the matter over and all our discussions had ended in nothing, I picked up my rifle and strolled off among the trees to think about this vital question. Absorbed in meditation, I wandered much farther from the camp than I intended. Finally my thoughts glided away almost unconsciously from the subject and I began to watch the scenery of the valley and the lake, of which I never grew tired. I sat down on a fallen log a few yards from the margin of the water, and, leaning my rifle by my side, allowed my thoughts to stray off on various tangents.

I fell to musing over our strange adventures since we had left the East. I felt as if years had passed and I was quite a man now. I wondered how our journey would end. Then, in boy-fashion, I began to pick up pebbles and skim them along the surface of the lake.

I had been engaged for several minutes in this not very instructive occupation when I heard a slight rustling behind a large tree which grew not a dozen feet away. At first I thought it was a snake, but I remembered that we had seen no snakes in the valley. Then I concluded it was a frog, and resumed my occupation of skipping stones over the lake.

But the rustling behind the tree continued, and I stepped forward to see what was making it. I passed around the tree, and came face to face with a hideously painted Indian warrior. He had no gun, but he held his knife in his right hand, and I knew as soon as I saw his face that if it had not been for the slight rustling behind the tree the knife would have been buried a minute later in my back.

I was surprised, but I did not lose the use of my faculties for a moment. My gun was behind me, leaning against the log, but, though under nineteen years of age, I was as large as an ordinary man and as strong and wiry as a bear. I seized the right wrist of the Indian and hurled myself upon him. He nearly fell, but by a powerful effort recovered himself and threw his left arm around me, trying to pin my arms to my sides. At the same time he endeavored to wrench free the right hand in which he held the knife. I think he, too, had been much surprised by my sudden approach to the tree, and some of his wits were wandering when I threw myself upon him. This surprise helped me.

The warrior was as strong and as wiry as I was, but I held to his right wrist with the clutch of death, and clasped his body with my other arm. If he could wrench his right hand free I knew that I was doomed. But I was determined that he should not do it I put forth all my strength, and with a savage delight I could feel my nails imbedding themselves in the flesh of his wrist and the blood trickling between my fingers.

Back and forward we writhed over the leaves, our breath coming in gasps. The Indian’s eyes glared hate into mine, and in those moments on the verge of eternity I took notice of everything—the black hair, wiry like the brush of a mop, the hideous stripes and bars of paint and the keen edge of the knife.

I compressed my grip on his wrist, hoping to paralyze his arm and compel him to drop the knife, but his fingers remained clinched around its haft. Suddenly my foot slipped on the dry leaves and I felt the earth sliding from under me. I fell full length upon the ground, with the Indian on top of me. The heaviness of the fall half dazed me, but even in that stupefied state the instinct of life was strong within me and I never relaxed my grip on the Indian’s wrist. He had uttered a grunt of triumph as I fell and endeavored to shift the knife to his left hand, but I held his right arm outstretched and he could not reach the weapon.

I knew something about wrestling and the Indian did not. With a sudden whirl, I threw him off, and then as if by mutual consent we rose to our feet again, my grip still being on his knife-arm. Then we stood for nearly a minute gazing into each other’s eyes. My face streamed with perspiration, and the body of the Indian, which was nearly naked, was damp with his exertions.

I was wondering what to do next, when the Indian suddenly doubled up his left hand and struck me a heavy blow between the eyes. Blood gushed from my nose and I staggered. But Indians are not trained boxers any more than they are trained wrestlers, and the blow, heavy as it was, did not take me off my feet or break my grip on his wrist. In an instant I imitated his tactics—strange that I had not thought of it before—and my own right shot out with all the force that I could put into it. I caught him squarely between the eyes and he went over like a stricken ox. The violence of his fall causing him to whirl the knife over his head and a dozen feet behind him.

I leaped to the fallen log, and when the Indian, the blood mingling with the paint on his face and rendering his aspect more hideous and ferocious than ever, rose to his feet, my gun was cocked and levelled at his breast.

He saw that he was in my power and anticipated his fate. He had fought a game-fight and lost. There was no sign of fear in his appearance. He drew himself up, expanded his chest, and without the flinching of a muscle awaited the deadly bullet. I looked along the sights of my rifle and picked out the spot on his bare breast beneath which the heart lay.

But I hesitated. A feeling of repugnance thrilled me. I had passed through dangers and had become hardened to many things, but I could not shoot down an unarmed man, though I knew he would have had no scruples had our positions been reversed.

My finger played with the trigger of the rifle. I saw an expression of impatience come into the proud and defiant eyes of the Indian, and he struck his chest with his right hand. I looked down the sights again and then I formed my resolution.

I turned the muzzle of my rifle to the ground. Then I pointed silently to the forest.

The Indian’s look of defiance changed to one of wonder, but I pointed again to the forest. He muttered something in the Indian tongue which I did not understand, bowed his head as if he were giving me a salute, and turning away, picked up his knife, which lay gleaming among the leaves. Then he gave me his strange salute again and stalked off among the trees.

I watched his brown body as he walked steadily on until he disappeared. Then I hastened back to the camp and told the boys about it. Pike censured me very much for sparing the Indian.

“You shouldn’t have been so squeamish, Joe,” he said. “He was stealin’ upon you to stick his knife in your back, and you shouldn’t have let him go. Ef he should meet you again he’d try to kill you jest as hard as he ever did. An Injun has no gratitude. I found an Injun of a peaceful tribe sick on the prairie once. I took him up and tended him until he was well. As soon as he was strong enough to go about again he stole my horse and rifle, an’ I’ve never seen Injun, animal or weapon agin.”

But Henry stood by me, and Sam and Bonneau inclined to my side, too. So I was not sorry that I had spared the warrior.

“It don’t make much difference noway,” added Pike philosophically, “fur ef thar’s one Injun in a place like this thar’s purty shore to be others. It’s luck that you had a tussle with him, fur we know now they’ve come afore they’ve had time to ambush us. Boys, this is a purty place an’ we’ve had a good time here, but we’ve got to leave it and leave it to-night. It’s no time to stand on the order of our goin’.”

Our first duty, under the instructions of Pike, was to fill our canteens with fresh water and to load ourselves with the jerked venison which we had prepared already for the journey.

“Now, boys,” said Pike, “we must shift to another part of the forest, fur the smoke of our campfire has already, I guess, told them devils where we lie. It’s a good thing for us that night is so near.”

Our preparations were completed in five minutes, and we started towards the western end of the valley, treading softly in Indian file. Sam wanted to take a farewell look at his beloved canoe, but Pike would not allow it. The reign of peace in our happy little valley had ended abruptly, and the very air seemed to be impregnated with danger.

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