The Prairie Chief. Robert Michael Ballantyne
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man with bloodshot eyes, labouring chest, and streaming brow burst into their midst, with the news that a band of Blackfoot warriors, many hundred strong, was on its way to attack the camp of Bald Eagle; that he was one of that old chief’s braves, and was hasting to give his tribe timely warning, but that he had run so far and so fast as to be quite unable to go another step, and had turned aside to borrow a horse, or beg them to send on a fresh messenger.
“I will go,” said Whitewing, on hearing this; “and my horse is ready.”
He wasted no more time with words, but ran towards the hollow where his steed had been hobbled, that is, the two front legs tied together so as to admit of moderate freedom without the risk of desertion.
He was closely followed by his friend Little Tim, who, knowing well the red man’s staid and self-possessed character, was somewhat surprised to see by his flashing eyes and quick breathing that he was unusually excited.
“Whitewing is anxious,” he said, as they ran together.
“The woman whom I love better than life is in Bald Eagle’s camp,” was the brief reply.
“Oho!” thought Little Tim, but he spoke no word, for he knew his friend to be extremely reticent in regard to matters of the heart. For some time he had suspected him of what he styled a weakness in that organ. “Now,” thought he, “I know it.”
“Little Tim will go with me?” asked the Indian, as they turned into the hollow where the horses had been left.
“Ay, Whitewing,” answered the trapper, with a touch of enthusiasm; “Little Tim will stick to you through thick and thin, as long as—”
An exclamation from the Indian at that moment stopped him, for it was discovered that the horses were not there. The place was so open that concealment was not possible. The steeds of both men had somehow got rid of their hobbles and galloped away.
A feeling of despair came over the Indian at this discovery. It was quickly followed by a stern resolve. He was famed as being the fleetest and most enduring brave of his tribe. He would run home.
Without saying a word to his friend, he tightened his belt, and started off like a hound loosed from the leash. Little Tim ran a few hundred yards after him at top speed, but suddenly pulled up.
“Pooh! It’s useless,” he exclaimed. “I might as well run after a streak o’ greased lightnin’. Well, well, women have much to answer for! Who’d iver have thowt to see Whitewing shook off his balance like that? It strikes me I’ll sarve him best by lookin’ after the nags.”
While the trapper soliloquised thus he ran back to the camp to get one of the Indian horses, wherewith to go off in search of his own and that of his friend. He found the Indians busy making preparations to ride to the rescue of their Bald Eagle allies; but quick though these sons of the prairie were, they proved too slow for Little Tim, who leaped on the first horse he could lay hold of, and galloped away.
Meanwhile Whitewing ran with the fleet, untiring step of a trained runner whose heart is in his work; but the way was long, and as evening advanced even his superior powers began to fail a little. Still he held on, greatly overtaxing his strength. Nothing could have been more injudicious in a prolonged race. He began to suspect that it was unwise, when he came to a stretch of broken ground, which in the distance was traversed by a range of low hills. As he reached these he reduced the pace a little, but while he was clambering up the face of a rather precipitous cliff, the thought of the Blackfoot band and of the much-loved one came into his mind; prudence went to the winds, and in a moment he was on the summit of the cliff, panting vehemently—so much so, indeed, that he felt it absolutely necessary to sit down for a few moments to rest.
While resting thus, with his back against a rock, in the attitude of one utterly worn out, part of the missionary’s text flashed into his mind: “the race that is set before us.”
“Surely,” he murmured, looking up, “this race is set before me. The object is good. It is my duty as well as my desire.”
The thought gave an impulse to his feelings; the impulse sent his young blood careering, and, springing up, he continued to run as if the race had only just begun. But ere long the pace again began to tell, producing a sinking of the heart, which tended to increase the evil. Hour after hour had passed without his making any perceptible abatement in the pace, and the night was now closing in. This however mattered not, for the full moon was sailing in a clear sky, ready to relieve guard with the sun. Again the thought recurred that he acted unwisely in thus pressing on beyond his powers, and once more he stopped and sat down.
This time the text could not be said to flash into his mind, for while running, it had never left him. He now deliberately set himself to consider it, and the word “patience” arrested his attention.
“Let us run with patience,” he thought. “I have not been patient. But the white man did not mean this kind of race at all; he said it was the whole race of life. Well, if so, this is part of that race, and it is set before me. Patience! patience! I will try.”
With childlike simplicity the red man rose and began to run slowly. For some time he kept it up, but as his mind reverted to the object of his race his patience began to ooze out. He could calculate pretty well the rate at which the Blackfoot foes would probably travel, and knowing the exact distance, perceived that it would be impossible for him to reach the camp before them, unless he ran all the way at full speed. The very thought of this induced him to put on a spurt, which broke him down altogether. Stumbling over a piece of rough ground, he fell with such violence that for a moment or two he lay stunned. Soon, however, he was on his legs again, and tried to resume his headlong career, but felt that the attempt was useless. With a deep irrepressible groan, he sank upon the turf.
It was in this hour of his extremity that the latter part of the preacher’s text came to his mind: “looking unto Jesus.”
Poor Whitewing looked upwards, as if he half expected to see the Saviour with the bodily eye, and a mist seemed to be creeping over him. He was roused from this semi-conscious state by the clattering of horses’ hoofs.
The Blackfoot band at once occurred to his mind. Starting up, he hid behind a piece of rock. The sounds drew nearer, and presently he saw horsemen passing him at a considerable distance. How many he could not make out. There seemed to be very few. The thought that it might be his friend the trapper occurred, but if he were to shout, and it should turn out to be foes, not only would his own fate but that of his tribe be sealed. The case was desperate; still, anything was better than remaining helplessly where he was. He uttered a sharp cry.
It was responded to at once in the voice of Little Tim, and next moment the faithful trapper galloped towards Whitewing leading his horse by the bridle.
“Well, now, this is good luck,” cried the trapper, as he rode up.
“No,” replied the Indian gravely, “it is not luck.”
“Well, as to that, I don’t much care what you call it—but get up. Why, what’s wrong wi’ you?”
“The run has been very long, and I pressed forward impatiently, trusting too much to my own strength. Let my friend help me to mount.”
“Well, now I come to think of it,” said the trapper, as he sprang to the ground, “you have come a tremendous way—a most awful long way—in an uncommon short time. A fellow don’t think o’ that when he’s mounted, ye see. There now,” he added, resuming his own seat in the saddle, “off we go. But there’s no need to overdrive the cattle; we’ll be there in good time, I warrant ye, for the nags are both good and fresh.”
Little Tim spoke the simple truth, for his own horse which he had discovered along with that of his friend some time after parting from him, was a splendid animal, much more powerful and active than the ordinary Indian horses. The steed of Whitewing was a half-wild creature of Spanish descent, from the plains of Mexico.
Nothing more was spoken after this. The two horsemen rode steadily on side by side, proceeding with long but not too rapid strides over the ground: now descending into the hollows, or ascending the gentle undulations of the plains; anon turning out