Before a dozen seconds had passed Bolly discovered that he had no puny antagonist with whom to combat, for the fellow seemed to possess muscles of iron, and even by exerting all his strength, the ranger failed to raise him from the ground to dash him down, as he had done many a man before.
They were in such a situation that if either attempted to use his knife, the other would have the advantage for an instant, and even this short time might prove disastrous to all cherished hopes of victory.
An idea came into Bolly's head which told him that the advantage really lay in his favor, for while fully the Indian's equal in strength, he also possessed some knowledge of scientific wrestling, against which the brave could oppose nothing in the same line.
The chance soon presented itself, and was promptly seized upon.
By an adroit fling of his foot, and a corresponding whirl with his arms, the ranger completely demolished his sturdy but ignorant foeman.
Falling underneath, the Indian knew that his chances of escape were slight, indeed, unless he managed to hold the ranger down, and dropping his knife, he attempted to accomplish this by clasping Bolly around the chest.
Unfortunately, however, for him, his hands failed to meet, and he could not put forth his full amount of strength.
Our old friend broke loose from the death clasp.
A cry of alarm burst from the doomed man's lips when he saw the red blade uplifted, but the outstretched arms were dashed aside, and the knife descended.
"That fur Tom Garny, blast yer hide," he muttered, and his foe was dead.