Two pair of gleaming eyes had noted his descent from the horse, and hardly had the ranger laid hold of his knife than he was called upon to use it.
A form arose lightly in the air, and passing over the bushes like a bird, landed close beside him.
Following this came a second, and as this man landed he gave a fierce shout, the pent-up air of his jump forcing itself through his teeth with the shrill force of a steam-whistle.
There was no such thing as taking Bolly Wherrit unawares. A man who had earned the name of White Thunder and Never Sleep among the northern tribes might be surprised, as he was not possessed of a second sight to divine ambuscades, but his enemies always found him ready.
The first man who leaped went to immediate death, for, as he braced himself to recover from the force of his jump, the ranger gave one spring and plunged his knife forward. It entered the broad red chest with a sickening thud, and when Bolly pulled it out again, a perfect deluge of blood followed.
Sickening as was the sight of this tottering man, actually turning pale from loss of blood, we soldiers have to witness far more terrible things, such as would make a civilian faint with horror.
The old ranger had seen worse in his day, when dear comrades were roasted before his eyes at the stake, and besides he had no time to waste in heroics.
His second foeman aimed a vicious blow at his head with a tomahawk that glittered like steel or silver as it flew by.
This intended death-blow Bolly avoided by a dip of the head, and in another instant the two were locked in a close embrace.
The Indian had managed to lay hold of his knife, so that the combatants were equally well armed.