“Sho!” he muttered, “it will be as good as a circus; but if the ‘White Vulture’ don’t settle that fellow’s hash, I ain’t any judge of fighting,” and then with eager eyes he looked upon the scene.
The two chiefs surveyed each other for a moment, their long, keen-edged blades glittering in their hands. Then the “Black Dog” advanced upon the “White Vulture” and began the attack. A moment they swayed from side to side, like pugilists, the glittering eyes watching for a weak spot in their opponent’s guard; then suddenly the “Black Dog” made a desperate hinge at the breast of the “White Vulture.” The chief avoided it by skillfully jumping back, and before the “Black Dog” could recover himself, with a quick downward motion he slashed the “Black Dog” across the face, cutting a terrible gash from the forehead to the chin, from which the blood streamed freely. Maddened with the pain and blinded by the blood which streamed into his eyes, the “Black Dog” made a desperate push on his nimble opponent as if to crush him by his weight; the “White Vulture,” quick as a cat, avoided the thrust, by stepping to one side, and then, as the “Black Dog” passed by him in his mad rush, he lunged at him and made a terrible wound in his side. The “Black Dog” fell on his knees, the blood streaming from the two wounds; his strength was going fast—the wound in his side was mortal. Twice he attempted to rise and twice he sunk back on his knees. The “White Vulture” stood at a little distance with folded arms and regarded him with a calm smile. A third time the “Black Dog” essayed to gain his feet, his eyes still glaring vengeance upon his foe. With a mighty effort the chief arose and stood erect. A single instant only did he keep his feet; and then his strength failing, the knife dropped from his nerveless hand and he sunk to the ground, dead.
For a few moments the “White Vulture”—who had not received even a single scratch in the encounter—regarded the foe who had fallen by his arm. Calmly he looked upon him, then approached, took the body of the dead Indian in his arms, carried it to the river’s bank and committed it to the waters, then he carefully washed off the blood-stains caused by handling the body, from his hands and breast, cleaned his knife and returned to the camp.
“He’s chain-lightning!” said Abe, who had not lost a single incident of the exciting scene.
The “White Vulture” strode into the circle of chiefs, and took his former seat. They all surveyed him earnestly, but no trace of the deadly conflict through which he had just passed was upon his person.
“Brothers, listen,” he said, as he resumed his seat. “The Great Spirit is angry with the ‘Black Dog’ for having caused so many young braves to be slain by the white-wagon braves; the ‘Black Dog’ fell into the swift waters and the Crow nation will see him no more. The ‘White Vulture’ will take the pale-face squaw of the ‘Black Dog,’ and he will give his brothers his share of the fur-wagons. Is it good?”
The chiefs gravely nodded assent; it was not well for any of the braves of the Crow nation to cross the will of the “White Vulture.”
The scout in his hiding-place was struck with a sudden idea.
“Durned if I don’t believe he picked the quarrel with the ‘Black Dog’ just to get hold of this ‘white squaw’; that’s why he wiped him out. He’s a cute Injun,” soliloquized the guide. “The ‘white squaw’ must be Miss Leona, ’cos thar ain’t any other female missing. I’m afraid that the ‘Black Dog’ won’t be the only man he’s got to wipe out afore he can have the ‘white squaw.’ But, whar on earth is the gal? I can’t see her anywhar. She must be in the timber.”
And so the “Crow-Killer” watched the Indians eagerly, keen to discover their plans.