Chapter 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.