CHAPTER XXXIV. RED KNIFE LOSES HIS “MEDICINE.

At the time the fire burst out in the great forest and Buffalo Bill, the Border King, and his partner, Texas Jack, were chased by the flames, a young buck of Oak Heart’s tribe of Utah Sioux was likewise in the path of the flames. He had been out after a bear, because his father, an old brave now toothless and unable to follow in the chase, had expressed a desire for bear paws, roasted.

The government of Indian society is strictly patriarchal. The father of a family demands, and is accorded, the greatest respect. Besides, it is a trait of Indian character to care for and respect the aged. The aged men of the tribe usually mold its opinions in both peace and war.

Besides, Red Knife, as this young buck was named, was not a married man. He was what the whites would have called “an old bach.” He had no teepee of his own, but it was a notorious fact that he cast longing glances toward White Antelope, the cherished daughter of Oak Heart and the flower of the Sioux maidens. He had gone hunting for the bear because his father was fond of bear paws, but with the claws, and others in his possession, he hoped to make a cunning necklace that would be acceptable to the chief’s daughter.

Red Knife had lately become of moment in the tribe. It had been his hand that had finally felled the chief of the pony soldiers who were killed in the coulée, and whom Death Killer had tried to scalp. Red Knife hoped in time to become so important that the White Antelope would really look at him with favor, instead of ignoring him altogether.

The buck had obtained a single shot at his bearship, wounding him with a barbed arrow, and had driven him into a thicket toward the close of the day. Suddenly the smoke that had been hanging over the hilltops for hours swooped down upon the Indian and his quarry, and following the smoke came the fire--a deluge of flame!

The bear suddenly lost his fear of the redskin, and the latter lost his desire to take bear paws to his teepee.

The crackling of the flames as they leaped down the wooded side-hills into the valley warned both hunter and hunted that there was no time to lose. The bear burst out of the thicket, the arrow still sticking in his rump, and waddled off for running water at a great pace. The Indian had chased the beast into unfamiliar territory, and now he took advantage of his prey’s instinct. He followed the bear.

Through brush and bramble, over rocky way and swampy land, the bear and the man raced. At times they were almost side by side, and neither paid the least attention to the other. Lighter and swifter creatures passed the two like the wind; the bear and the redskin plugged along doggedly, as though running for a wager.

They were not in the neighborhood of Bendigo Lake, so they did not meet up with either the two scouts or with the Mad Hunter. It was a stream which the bear, back in his little brain, knew would be running full even at this dry season. They reached it barely in time to save themselves from being withered by the flames. The bear’s fur was indeed smoking.

He plunged over the bank into the deep, dark pool. Red Knife went after bruin, landing squarely on the bear’s back, eliciting only the notice of a grunt from the beast as he sank to the bottom of the pool and let the flames roar overhead.

The redskin stayed below the surface as long as he could, too. He could feel the bear beside him all the time. He might have flung himself upon the beast with his knife and killed him. It were better had he done so.

But at the time Red Knife was too perturbed to think of killing his companion in misery. When the redskin came up to breathe, the fiery brands showered upon him so thickly that he was glad to sink again. It was some time before it was safe for him to squat, with his head out of water.

And there were the redskin and the bear, both on their haunches, with their noses stuck out of the pool like two bullfrogs. As the heat grew less intense and the brands stopped falling, the bear and the man began eying each other with less favor. Each recovered from his panic and began to remember that they were deadly enemies.

The bear growled and shifted his position to a distance from the red; the latter got out his knife--the only weapon he had saved--and in moments when he was not dodging flying fire planned what he would do should bruin take it into his head to attack.

This deep pool in the brook was no proper arena for a bear-fight--especially when the human antagonist had simply a knife. Red Knife thought some of sinking to the bottom of the pool again and making the attack himself by trying to drive his blade into some vulnerable part of the beast.

But the difficulty of using his knife with any surety, or putting any force behind the blow under water, detained him from trying this. Besides, the bear, if killed or badly injured, would sink and might pinion the redskin to the bottom of the brook.

Therefore, as soon as he could see at all through the rolling smoke, and the worst of the flames had passed, leaving a thicket or dead tree only blazing in its wake here and there, the redskin made up his mind that he would better trust to the dry ground. His moccasins were well-nigh torn from his feet by his furious race through the forest, and his meager clothing in general had been seriously torn. There was little to shield him from the fire if he came forth, but the water of the brook was ice-cold, and hardy as the Red Knife was its chill had now set his teeth to playing like castanets.

The bear whined with the cold, too, but the next moment he growled as Red Knife made a movement toward him. If the beast once got a hold with his front paws on the redskin he would disembowel him with the great claws of his hind feet. Red Knife shrank farther away from the bear’s vicinity.

At this bruin plucked up courage. He growled again, came down off his haunches, and began to swim across the pool toward the Indian. The latter saw that it was his move--and the only place for him to move to was out of the water. So he backed into the shallower part of the stream and toward a part of the bank that was comparatively clear of fire.

The heat and smoke were still almost blistering. To leave the water was a cross indeed. But the bear continued to advance, and Red Knife did not consider that he wished to come immediately to close quarters with the brute.

As he backed out of the stream the heat of a near-by blazing thicket warmed him more than comfortably. The chill was driven out of his body, and his teeth stopped chattering. Fearful as he was of the fire--all wild beasts hate it--the bear found the increasing warmth grateful, too. He scrambled out upon the bank, too, and actually squatted down in the heat of the bonfire to dry himself.

Red Knife looked about him as well as he could for the drifting smoke, and picked out the apparently safest path from the spot. Had he been contented to decamp without stirring up the bear, he would have been all right. But an Indian loves to tell of his prowess around the camp-fire, and so far there had been very little in this adventure to suggest a tale of self-glorification.

Therefore the buck determined to have those bear paws for his father and the claws for the necklace, after all!

He hunted out a big stone, pried it out of the smoking ground with his knife, and, picking it up, poised it carefully for a cast. With a sudden grunt of anger, the bear rose up. He seemed to smell trouble in the air. His movement rather spoiled Red Knife’s aim, or else the buck was nervous. The stone, thrown with terrific force, just glanced from bruin’s hard skull!

With a roar the bear sprang at the foolish red man. He came all glaring eyes, froth-dripping fangs, and unsheathed claws--a sight to drive the barb of terror into the bravest heart!

The redskin found himself walled in by fire behind. He leaped for the pool again, but the bear reached him with one paw first. The stroke ripped his hunting-shirt and leggings fairly from his body. Nothing but shreds of the garments were left and hung upon him--along with shreds of his torn flesh!

The redskin yelled and leaped into the water. The bear growled and plunged after him. As he came up Red Knife saw the great body of the beast going down, and he struck at it with his blade again and again. The sharp steel was buried in the body of the brute at each stroke, but all about the shoulders--a part not at all vital.

Again and again Red Knife struck before the bear came to the surface, but, although the blood flowed until the agitated pool was dyed red, the bear came up as strong and as ugly as ever.

Red Knife threw himself backward and escaped the first plunging blows of the bear. He reached shallow water and leaped ashore, being more agile in this than his bearship. But in doing so he chanced to slip and turn his ankle. The pain was very great for a moment, and the Indian fell to the ground, giving the bear a chance to almost overtake him.

Instantly, however, the red turned and struck at his bearship before the latter could seize him with its great, slobbering jaws. An attack always puts a bear on the defensive. He squatted back on his haunches, ready to either hug his enemy or to strike at him with his great forearms, which swung like flails!

Red Knife clambered to his feet, but he could not run. The bear would overtake him now in a short race. He poised himself on one foot, holding his dripping blade before him, and, believing himself come to the end of his time, the stoical Indian began to chant the death-song.

The growling of the bear almost drowned this cry of the Indian. The latter advanced to embrace death, yet determined to sell his last breath dearly.

The flaillike arms of the bear swung to and fro; he champed his teeth and roared. The Indian flung himself with the desperation of a berserker upon the animal, striking again and again with his keen blade.

Two awful raking blows the bear got in himself. It stripped the last rag from the Indian’s body, and broke the string of the amulet he wore about his neck, as well. They clinched like two men wrestling, and so rolled into the pool.

Splash! they went under the surface. Bubbles and gore rose to the agitated top of the water.

Then one of the contestants floated up, struggled a bit, secured a footing, and slowly walked ashore. It was the Indian. It was Red Knife, as naked as when he was born. He sank upon the bank of the stream, the conqueror in a good fight. But he had no joy in his heart. Instead, he was filled with gloom. In the struggle and the last plunge in the pool he had lost his medicine-bag!