The Indian was sinewy and stout of limb, yet he was no match for the stalwart scout. With a grasp of steel, Boone grappled with the red warrior.
For a moment they swayed to and fro over the earth; the scout trying to break the grip of the Indian, and he striving to hold the unknown foe until his brethren should come to his aid.
The Shawnees were approaching fast. Their shouts rung out on the air like a death-knell.
Thus nerved to redouble his exertions, the iron-limbed scout swung the red-skin from the ground, and essayed to cast him from him; but, like a snake, the supple savage twined himself around the body of the white.
The cries of the Indian girl, alarmed for the safety of her lover, were answered by the angry shouts of the approaching crowd, who could plainly see that there was a struggle going on in the borders of the thicket.
“Help! help!” cried the girl: “this way! a white-skin!”
“Let go your hold, you cussed red imp!” cried Boone, between his teeth, as he vainly tried to break the grip of the red chief.
The Indian now was merely trying to hold the white foe till assistance should come to his aid.
Desperate, Boone’s hand sought the handle of his knife. The bright blade flashed in the air; a second more, and it would have been buried to the haft in the body of the White Dog, but the Indian girl perceived her lover’s peril, and sprung to his aid, grasping the hand of the scout just as he was about to plunge the knife in the red-man’s breast.
The red chief, taking advantage of the girl’s aid, twisted his leg around that of the scout, bore Boone backward to the earth, upon which the combatants fell with a heavy shock. A second more, and the Shawnee warriors surrounded the contending men.