The Border Watch: A Story of the Great Chief's Last StandAltsheler, Joseph A. (Joseph Alexander)
General
The Border Watch: A Story of the Great Chief's Last Stand
Altsheler, Joseph A. (Joseph Alexander)
Frontier and pioneer life -- Juvenile fiction
He fell under the impact of so great a weight and the rifle which he
could not use at close quarters was torn from his hands. The warriors
uttered a triumphant shout which caused all those sitting by the fire to
spring to their feet.
Henry was at the very summit of his youthful strength. There was no one
in the forest who matched him in either height or muscular strength,
save, possibly Timmendiquas, and with a tremendous effort he rose to his
feet, the whole yelling pack clinging to him, one on each arm, one at
each leg, and two at his shoulders and waist. He hurled loose the one on
his right arm and snatched at a pistol in his belt, but quick as a
flash, two others loosing their hold elsewhere, seized the arm. Then
they pressed all their weight upon him again, seeking to throw him.
Evidently they wished to take him a captive. But Henry remained erect
despite the immense weight pulling at him. He was bent slightly forward,
and, for a few moments, his efforts exactly balanced the strength of the
six who sought to pull him down. In that brief space they remained
immovable. The sweat broke out on his forehead in great beads. Then with
an effort, convulsive and gigantic, he threw them all from him, standing
clear for one brief instant. His hand was on the pistol butt, but the
yelling pack were back too quick, leaping at him like wolves. He was
dragged to his knees, but once more he struggled to his feet, drenched
in perspiration, his heart beating loudly as he made his mighty efforts.
In their struggle they came free of the woods, and out into the open
where the light from the fires cast a red glow over the tall figure of
the white youth, and the six naked and sinewy brown forms that tore at
him. The chief and the white men in the camp rushed forward.
Braxton Wyatt cried exultingly: "It is Ware!" and drew his pistol, but
Timmendiquas struck down his arm.
"It is not for you to shoot," he said; "let him be taken alive."
Bird was commander in that camp, and the Wyandot was only a visitor
there, but the tone of Timmendiquas was so strong and masterful that
Bird himself recognized his predominance, and did not resist it.
And there were others among the Indians who looked with admiration upon
the tall youth as he made his magnificent struggle for life and liberty.
A deep hum ran through the great circle that had formed about the
fighters. Excitement, the joy of a supreme sport, showed upon their
savage faces. One or two started forward to help the six, but
Timmendiquas waved them back. Then the circle pressed a little closer,
and other rows of dark faces behind peered over brown shoulders. Henry
was scarcely conscious that hundreds looked on. The pulses in temples
and throat were beating heavily, and there was a mist before his eyes.
Nobody was present for him, save the six who strove to pull him down.
His soul swelled with fierce anger and he hurled off one after another
to find them springing back like the rebound of a rubber ball.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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