Black Eagle strung his bow, and placing the feathered shaft upon the well-strained string, drew it deliberately.
“Die, fool!” was the sneering response, and the report of the revolver awoke the echoes of the rocks.
“By heaven!” exclaimed the excited Waltermyer, forgetting his usual caution, as the horse of the Indian fell backward in his death struggles, for the bullet had missed the human form, and buried itself in the heart of the beast. “By heavens—forgive me, poor little Est, I couldn’t help it; but, the noblest brute of the party has fallen before the coward shot.”
It was the work of a moment for the active red-man to free himself from his steed, for even while he was falling, he had swung himself clear, and sent an arrow in return for the shot. For a moment the revolver pealed and the bow-string snapped, but without fatal effects, though both combatants were wounded. At length the pistol charges were exhausted, and the frayed, overstrained string of the bow broken, and the combatants mutually paused, glaring at each other.
The lull in the storm of battle was only for a moment, for the Indian hurled his keen hatchet full at the head of the Mormon. Fortunately, the aim had been hurried and uncertain, for it missed its intended mark, and shivered to pieces on the rocky floor of their battle-ground. The discharged pistol was still in the hands of the white man, and the Indian had his knife. In physical strength they were about evenly matched, but the Black Eagle had much the advantage in the training of his wild life.
“Now the fun is comin’,” whispered Waltermyer. “Thar they go like Kilkenny cats.”
“But think of their lives,” replied Esther, for the first time speaking.
“Think what would become of you, if either of them got thar hands on you.”
“But it’s horrible!”
“Pshaw! Thar lives ain’t of any more ’count than a sneakin’ cayote.”