Desperately Ke-ne-ha-ha struck at him with the tomahawk, but the Wolf Demon warded off the blows with his arm, and despite the efforts of the chief to prevent it, he closed in with him.
Sinewy and supple was the Shawnee warrior, yet he was but as a child in the powerful grasp of his terrible foe.
The Wolf Demon held him in a grip of iron. His arms, linked round the Indian like bands of steel, were crushing the life out of him little by little.
Vainly Ke-ne-ha-ha struggled to free himself from the anaconda coil.
Like the serpent of far-off India, wreathing its huge length around its prey, the Wolf Demon held the Shawnee chieftain in his grip.
The breath of the Indian came thick and hard.
Up and down in the narrow confines of the wigwam swayed the contending foes, like two venomous snakes coiled together.
Exerting all his strength, the Indian tried to break the grasp of the Wolf Demon. Vainly he struggled—vainly he tried. He felt that his strength was going fast.
Tight and tighter grew the grip of steel.
The Indian turned black in the face. The blood gushed from his mouth. He ceased to struggle. The grip relaxed and Ke-ne-ha-ha fell to the ground, dead.