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Show Reflections, then threw it down into the water in a dramatic gesture to tell the Indian that no longer had any intentions of beating him to death. held out an open hand as an indication that wanted to help, and smiled. At first there was distrust on his face, then a smile, but that was cut short with another grimace of pain. His face fell back into the water. It occurred to me that the straining to keep his head above water could be a very tiring task. As soon as his head appeared above the water again, waded to his side. With my back to the horse, stepped over the warriors back, straddling his body. Bending over, reached around his chest with both arms, then leaned forward trying to pull him free. He didnt budge. Apparently, the weight of the lifeless horse was pushing him down against something hard, possibly a submerged tree or rock. tried pulling from a number of different angles, but with no success, and whenever pulled, it caused him intense pain. Suddenly I had a better idea, and was angry with myself for not thinking of it sooner. Instead of pulling on the injured man, all I had to do was pull the horse to one side. The buoyancy of the water should make the horse easy to I I LEE NELSON of the fittest, and if I acted quickly, I would probably be the survivor. Holding my knife out in front, in a since escaping from the Black-feeHowever, he was in the process of being chased by a Ute Indian and it appeared as though the Ute wanted to take him alive. The Indian, who was on horseback, was closing in on Storm when . . . As it was, both horse and rider lost their balance and tumbled head over heels towards the pond, the unfortunate Indian hitting the water just ahead of his pony. I was only 16 years old and rather skinny, certainly not yet skilled or concomfident in the art of bat. Nevertheless, realized that if I was ever going to have to fight this Indian, there would never be a better time than the present. I drew the knife from my belt and readied myself to advance on the Indian, offering a quick prayer that I would have the courage to do what needed to be done. The horse was about ten feet in front of me, on its side in the water, its back toward me, its hooves thrashing wildly in a desperate effort to regain its foothead splashing back ing, the and forth in the water. The Ute warrior was not in sight. I hoped he was under those thrashing hooves. Suddenly the Indian's head broke the surface of the water, a foot or so on my side of the horses back. He looked straight at me, a grim expression on his face. I took one step back, bracing myself for the attack which I suspected would be coming. Suddenly I realized, however, that in order for the warriors head to be where it was, in such shallow water, his body had to be extended horizontally on its belly beneath the thrashing pony. I relaxed my grip on the knife, realizing the Ute warrior was pinned beneath his pony. I knew, too, that once the pony got over on its stomach, it would probably trample the warrior as it scrambled to its feet. I waited a few moments, expecting the horses hooves to do my fighting for me, but the animal's violent thrashing quickly subsided and its head fell limply back into the water. The horse was either dead or dying, and would not be getting up again. The warrior, who had been waiting for his mount to scramble to its feet, and now realizing that the horse was not going to be getting up, began to squirm back and forth in an effort to get out from under the horse. I bit my lip and made myself move in for the kill, realizing that if he wiggled free, the odds would again be in his favor. He was older and much stronger than me. My intention was to drown him by holding his head under the water, or if that failed, to cut his throat with my knife. It was a matter of kill or be killed, survival t. hand-to-han- I wild-eye- d waded carefully towards the helpless Indian. Seeing me coming, he stopped wiggling and stared directly into my eyes. There was no fear in his expression, his black eyes intense and fierce. It was clear he intended to fight me with his teeth if necessary. My courage began to melt, but I forced myself to move one step closer. Suddenly a brown, muscular hand broke the surface of the water, like a trout rising for a fly, and grabbed the edge of my shirt. The seemingly helpless Indian was suddenly the aggressor, and I fell backward in an effort to get away from him. Fortunately, my buckskin shirt was soaked and, as wet buckskin is about as slippery as an eels tail, I was able to pull away from his grip. I wasn't about to get that close again and take the risk of him drowning me. would have to kill him from a safe distance with a spear or club. waded over to the beaver dam in search of a weapon, and soon located a perfect bludgeon, a young sapling about three inches in diameter, about six feet long, the bark chewed off by beavers. It had been cut recently, and was green and solid, a perfect weapon. The thought occurred to me that if I climbed out of the pond and started running, might be able to get away before the Indian could wiggle free. It seemed likely, however, that he would come after me, and maybe get a few friends to help. I didnt much like the idea of the Utes and the Blackfeet coming after me. No, the best thing to do was to kill him. Then he coudnt tell his savage friends about me, and would have the benefit of his clothing and weapons during the tough winter months ahead. I waded back to the Indian, the club in hands. my firmly The sun had dipped behind the western hill and a brisk October breeze felt icy cold against my wet buckskins. My feet were numb in the frigid pond ater, and as I neared the Indian who had been almost totally submerged in the cold mountain water for a number of minutes, his teeth were chattering loudly from the cold. He didn't look nearly as threatening as before, but there was still no fear in his eyes as he watched me approach with the club. I suppose if I had had a rifle, would have been able to squeeze off a round into the warrior's skull, but to beat the life out of a defenseless person with a club was more than I could bring myself to do. I dont know how long I stood there, watching him, trying to figure out what to do. I was afraid that if I helped him get free, he would still try to kill or capture me. When his face twisted in a grimace of intense pain, telling me that he was hurt, was finally able to decide what to do. I raised the club high above my head, I half-crouc- h d I I I I I I I I I I I move. Taking the dead animals head in both arms, I twisted, pulled, pushed, jerked back and forth. Nothing happened, not the slightest movement of the body. Something was wrong. I ran my hand over the horses side, trying to figure out what the problem might be. I noticed a hard, pointed bump just behind the shoulder. There was another on the flank. I drew the knife from my belt and pressed the sharp blade down on the hard part of the flank. The moment the blade touched the hide, the skin parted and a stump pushed into the open air. I touched the knife a on the hard spot behind the shoulder. Again a small sharpened stump pushed through the hold into the open air. The horse had fallen on the pointed stumps like a piece of meat on skewers. No wonder it had died so quickly. Now I I d understood why I I back-relate- I beaver-sharpene- 1984, Page 5 24, couldn't tell, because his entire body, except for his head, was pinned underwater by the dead horse. It occurred to me to go over to the dam and remove some of the sticks and mud in an effort to let more water escape, resulting in a lower water level. was wading over to the dam when realized lowering the water level would increase the weight of the horse on the injured man. If his injuries were internal or such a move could be fatal. Without the water to buoy up some of the horse's weight, he would be pinned down tighter than ever, ed to use as a club and wedged it under the horse in an attempt to use it as a lever to lift either end of the horse, but the bottom end of the lever kept sinking into the soft mud, making the pole useless. After a number of unsuccessful attempts, I tossed the pole to one side, wondering if there was any earthly way could help this poor Indian. It was almost dark, and it didnt look like he would be able to hold his head up much longer. I knelt down beside him and helped hold his head up. His eyes had a faraway look, as if he were going to pass out at any moment. The thought occurred to me that maybe I ought to put him out of his misery. As numb as he was from the cold, he probably wouldn't even feel the blade of my knife if I pulled it quickly across his jugular vein. As I thought about this act of mercy,. I realized that no matter how desperate his condition, I wouldnt be able to do it. But as looked at the side of his strong neck, thinking where the knife would have to go in to most effec different idea emerged from the depths of my mind. Suddenly I knew exactly how to save the Indian. I wished I that thought of it sooner. I slapped his face to revive him and let him know that he would have to hold his head up by himself for a while. He seemed to understand. I let go of him and drew the knife from my belt. The answer was so simple. I certainly couldn't move a horse with sharpened beaver stumps planted in each end, but if the horse were cut in half, with each half free to turn on a single stump, it would be easy to free the Ute warrior. I plunged the blade into the horses back, behind the last rib, and began to cut. At first the cutting was clean and fast, but it quickly turned into a messy job. The inside of the horse was son a cauldron of blood, mud and green, grass oozing from severed intestines. I had to reach up to my shoulder in order to cut along the bottom side of the dead animal. The warm insides felt good on my cold hands. I Last week Dan Storm was successful in catching fish in the Green River for his first meal May couldn't move the dead animal to one side or the other. The only way to move it would be to lift it off of the stumps. I had already noted that the animal was larger than the normal Indian pony. I guessed its weight at around 900 pounds. There was no way could lift it off the stumps. A few minutes earlier, I was determined to kill this Indian and was unable to do so. Now wanted to keep him alive, and it appeared that I would be unsuccessful in that endeavor, too. It was getting harder and harder for him to keep his head above the cold water. He was getting weak, and it would soon be dark. It was apparent he had been hurt from the fall, but how badly I I half-digeste- d I Continues Next Week I I Discover for yourself why Golden Corral Is the best family steak house in America! Steak Hoos' Sun.-Thur- s. 11-1- Frl. 411 No. Main 11-1- 0 & 1 Sat. . & |