The old frontiersman felt that he was surrounded by enemies fully as alert as himself and ready to shoot him down on sight.
“An’ they won’t ax me if I’ll like it nuther,” he murmured to himself. “They be jest a-hankerin’ arter my sculp like all possessed.”
Peering cautiously around, he saw nobody, and after a short wait took his way between the rocks towards the spot where the rear of the cave was located. Here he listened again, and this time heard the low murmur of two voices. But they were those of Dobson, the settler, and a regular, talking from inside.
“They ought to know enough to keep quiet,” mused the old frontiersman, in disgust. “How can they spot the enemy if they gab like thet?”
In a few minutes the voices ceased, and thinking the coast clear the old frontiersman worked his way among the rocks and through the bushes toward a point he imagined the Indians might be holding. The darkness of night had now fallen completely over the forest and scarcely a sound broke the stillness.
Barringford was about to cross to another patch of brushwood when the distant call of a night bird arrested his attention. He was well versed in the calls of all birds and that which he heard did not sound exactly true to his ear. He smiled grimly to himself and waited.
As he had surmised, an answering call soon followed. It came from the very brushwood he had been on the point of entering, and a tall Indian stepped forth, as if to advance. Before Barringford could retreat or draw to one side the pair were face to face.
Not a word was uttered—indeed, there was no time for speech. The Indian had his tomahawk in his hand, and this he raised, aiming a blow at the old frontiersman’s skull. As old as he was getting, Barringford was still nimble on his feet and dexterously dodged to one side. As the arm of the red warrior came down, he caught the red man by the shoulder, and over went the pair on the soil. Then the Indian tried to cry out, but Barringford’s hand was clapped on his mouth.
It now became a desperate but silent struggle for life. From the red man’s mouth, the old frontiersman’s hand was shifted to his throat, which was caught with a grip of steel. The Indian struggled desperately, first kicking heavily and then drawing up a knee against Barringford’s breast. Then he tried to use his tomahawk again, and hit the frontiersman a glancing blow on the shoulder. The hatchet fell, and in a twinkling the Indian had Barringford by the throat, in a clutch equally firm and relentless.
Like two bulldogs that have a death-grip and will not let go, white man and Indian rolled over and over, on the rocks and in the bushes, each doing all in his power to get the better of the other. The Indian was muscular, and his strength was equal if not superior to that of his white adversary. But Barringford had secured the first grip, and the red man’s breath was fast leaving him. His tongue stuck out, his eyes bulged from their sockets, and he could not utter even so much as a faint gurgle.