Then, as the wildcat came on for a final attack, the scout pulled out his hunting knife.
As the wildcat came down the hand holding the hunting knife was raised, with the blade of the knife pointing upward.
A lightning-like swing and a thrust, and for one brief instant the wildcat was poised in the air, upon the very blade of the long knife.
The blow had been a true one, the knife point reaching the beast's heart, and when the animal fell it rolled down among the leaves, dead.
"By thunder! but that was something I hadn't bargained for!" murmured the great scout, as he surveyed the carcass. "That's about the biggest wildcat I ever saw. It's a good thing I didn't meet him in the dark."
Wiping off his hunting knife, he restored it to his belt. Then he picked up his pistol and started to reload it, at the same time whistling for Bonnie Bird, who, he felt sure, must be close by.
As Pawnee Brown stood reloading the pistol and whistling for his mare he did not notice a shadow behind him. Slowly but surely someone was drawing closer to him. It was Yellow Elk.
The Indian chief was on foot. In his left hand he carried a cocked revolver, in his right an old-time tomahawk, from which he had refused to be parted when placed on the Indian reservation.
The redskin's face was full of the most bitter animosity it is possible to imagine. The glare of wickedness in his eyes fairly put the look that had lived in the wildcat's optics to shame. His snags of yellow teeth were firmly set.
He was resolved to kill his enemy there and then. Pawnee Brown should not again escape him.