Then with a spring, like unto the panther’s in quickness, and in force, the Wolf Demon leaped upon the Shawnee chief.
Ke-ne-ha-ha did not seek to parry the attack, but nimbly he evaded it by springing to one side.
The tomahawk of the Wolf Demon spent its force upon the air; and as he passed, the wily Indian dealt him a terrible stroke upon the head, that cut in deep through the wolf-skin, and felled him heavily to the earth.
A hoarse note of triumph came from the lips of the chief as he beheld the downfall of his foe. But his joy was of short duration, for, like the ancient god of the fable that gathered strength from being cast to earth, the Wolf Demon rose to his feet. The shock of the fall had torn the tomahawk from his hand, but he did not attempt to recover the weapon.
With naked hands—weaponless—he faced the Shawnee chief. The blood streaming down freely over his face—over the black and white pigments with which it was painted in horrid fashion—made him look like an evil spirit fresh from the fires below.
His eyes shot lurid flames as he glared upon the Shawnee warrior.
Ke-ne-ha-ha grasped his tomahawk with desperate energy and waited for the attack of the unarmed foe.
The Shawnee chieftain did not have long to wait.
With the spring of a tiger the Wolf Demon leaped upon the Indian.